


miscommunication

by mouthymandalorian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, F/M, Mando doesn't know how to have a conversation, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No use of y/n, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader is a bad ass, Reader-Insert, Romance, Rough Sex, Smut, Spanking, Trauma, Virgin!Mando, Voyeurism, bisexual reader, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthymandalorian/pseuds/mouthymandalorian
Summary: When the Mandalorian brings you aboard his ship to care for and protect his son when he’s away, neither of you is what the other expected. You’re both exceptionally bad at reading each other, and you’re afraid of what might happen when your past inevitably catches up to you. Takes place after season 1, but canon? We don’t know her.reader is fem. :)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 98
Kudos: 308





	1. the fight

**Author's Note:**

> I have not published a fic since my ff.net days 100 years ago, please be nice, I am old and just trying to have a good time. I have more chapters written out and I just want to see if there's any interest for yet another babysitter/bodyguard story that's a little bit different from the rest.

He is so _weird_. And quiet. And big. How does he take up so much _space_? 

You've been on the Razor Crest for a month when you make this observation for the thousandth time as you watch him shuffle around the ship looking for things that need repairing, trying to pass the time remaining before you arrive on the next planet. You can probably count on both hands the amount of full sentences he’s actually said aloud to you since you got on his ship. 

You started picking up on the subtleties of his body language the first week in. You’ve never had to work so hard to understand someone. 

You hear him talking to the baby, though. He murmurs to him in low tones, asks him if he feels okay, if he needs something to eat, if he needs a nap. The baby always coos back sweetly, and sometimes you swear you hear the stoic warrior chuckle softly in return. They have their little ways of communicating.

It makes your heart swell up. Big man, little baby. 

You _love_ the baby. This is a new feeling. You don’t care much for kids in general. They’re loud and messy and constantly trying to get themselves killed. You don’t begrudge anyone who has them, or the existence of the little monsters themselves, but you’ve never felt anything close to a maternal instinct. So, when Mando first asks you to come onto his ship and take care of his son, you’d scoffed. 

“I’m not a nanny,” you’d said, re-stringing your energy bow. You met him on Dathomir when he’d come across your campfire and asked to sit for a moment. He’d looked exhausted. At least, you _thought_ he looked exhausted. He was in a full suit of Mandalorian armor, face fully covered, but his stride was slow and he was limping just a little.

“Where is he now?” you asked, scanning the area, expecting a child to float out of the mossy trees.

“With someone I trust. I’d rather have someone around full time. Someone who can protect him when I’m not there. You look like you can take care of yourself.” 

He nodded to the bow you were detailing. You set it aside to consider the offer. You’d never so much as babysat and you were an only child. You also had another burning question.

“Why would you tell me any of this? Why would you trust someone you just met in a swamp on a planet full of mercs and smugglers and bounty hunters?”

“ _I’m_ a bounty hunter.”

“Then you should know what a _stupid_ idea it is to tell me that you have your own ship and a special baby who needs looking after.”

He sighed, sounding tired and exasperated. You got the feeling he didn’t have to talk people into doing things very often. 

“I’ve been sitting here for at least an hour and you haven’t tried to kill me, drug me, or take my armor,” he said. It sounded almost like a joke, but you suspected he doesn’t joke much. You snort anyway thinking of how ridiculous it would be to try to one-on-one a fully armed and armored Mandalorian. 

“How bloody stupid do I look?” you asked. 

“Exactly. You’re not. I’ll give you 10% of every job.” 

“How much do your jobs pay?”

“Depends on the job.”

“Can I meet him first?”

“No.”

“How do I know you’re not going to kill and eat me?”

“Wouldn’t make a very good nanny that way.”

You glare at him.

“Well, look who has a sense of humor,” you said, “Okay, fine. Let’s say I take you up on this. How do I know you’re not gonna just drop me on some backwater skughole planet when you run out of money?”

“I won’t run out of money if you’re around to watch the kid. And when you get on that ship, you’re there for the long haul. I can’t let you see him and then leave. And if you do try to leave without any warning, I will do what I need to do to protect him.”

“The murder threat is a little unsettling, pal.” But you could see he wasn’t just being a dick. He was trying to let you know what you’d be getting yourself into.

“Sorry. I just want you to know what you need to expect. I...don’t have a lot of conversations.” He brings a gloved hand up to the back of his neck and rubs it. The gesture is endearing and he seems a little unsure of the situation.

You laugh because he’s suddenly so awkward and uncomfortable and who _says_ something like that? 

“ _Really?_ Okay. Sure. Let’s do it. It’d be nice to get out of this swamp, anyway.” You stand up, wipe your oil-smeared hands on your trousers, and stick your hand out to introduce yourself.

“You can call me Mando,” he looks at your outstretched hand and stands up to match your posture. He seems hesitant at the gesture, but shakes your hand anyway. It’s much larger than your own and the leather is surprisingly soft. You wonder fleetingly what he looks like under all that. You’d heard stories about Mandalorians, but who knew what was true and what was blurrgshit. He eyed your rust bucket of a speeder.

“That yours?” You nod. It’s a crappy little thing, but she’s gotten you out of plenty of messes. You think it’ll hold you and the Mandalorian, but it’d be a tight fit. Fortunately, neither of you are packing very heavily.

Swinging your leg over the hunk of metal, you looked back at the shiny suit of beskar behind you. He’s leaning on one leg, right hand resting on his blaster, head cocked to the right like he was thinking. You sighed a little dreamily. He was a magnificent thing in a purely objective way. He reminded you of the knights from the old stories who rescued princesses from tall towers.

“You coming, buckethead?” you teased. He grumbled a little and then settled himself behind you, awkwardly trying to situate his arms without touching you. “You’re gonna fall off like that. You never ridden a speeder with a second person before? Arms around my waist. Let’s go. Kid’s not gonna nanny himself.” 

The noise of protest does not go unnoticed. He gingerly wrapped two long, bulky arms around your middle and you had to stop yourself from giggling. You program in the ship’s coordinates and you set off.

An hour-long, blessedly uneventful ride later, you pulled up to a hangar with the Razor Crest docked inside. It’s an old ship, and you know nothing about ships. But it looks well-cared for. Like a lot of love and dedication has gone into its upkeep. He opened the gate with his vambrace and you carry your little backpack of belongings into a small hold. 

“Can I borrow this?” he asks, already moving toward the speeder. 

“I guess, where are you going?” 

“Picking the kid up.” 

“Shouldn’t I come too?”

“No. I’ll be back. Don’t touch anything that looks dangerous, and I’m locking you in.”

Everything looked relatively dangerous, so you perched precariously on a stack of crates and wondered what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into, and if you can negotiate a pay raise. You decide to wait until the Mandalorian returns to do any exploring. You were wondering where you would sleep when the gate opened. In front of you was the Mandalorian and---what is _that_? In the crook of his arm he cradled a little creature whose species you’d never seen. The little being smiled when he saw you, and stuck his arms out. Your heart felt like it would burst. You heard the Mandalorian murmur something into the baby’s wrinkly green head.

You walked up to the pair cautiously. “Is this him? I thought he was your son?” you say curiously. Mando has five fingers and those ears wouldn’t fit under that helmet. 

“He’s a foundling. I am as his father until he becomes of age or until I find his people,” Mando explained. You nod in understanding.

“Hey there, brown eyes,” you say to the foundling, taking him out of Mando’s arms and tweaking the tips of his ears. 

Within 20 minutes of meeting the baby, you decided that if anyone tried to hurt him you would make sure they suffered. “What’s his name?” you asked. 

“I just call him kid.” 

“ _Kid_?”

He shrugged. 

“He’s your son and you haven’t given him a name? I’m calling him Peanut,” you said loudly and decisively. The baby cooed again and smiled, which you took to mean that he had no objections.

You thought you heard a soft chuckle crackling through the vocoder, but it was so quiet you couldn’t be sure. The baby’s lack of name makes you think of something else.

“Mando,” you said slowly, not wanting to step on his toes, “Doesn’t...doesn’t it get confusing, telling everyone to call you Mando? Do you _all_ tell people to call you Mando? How does anyone know who they’re talking about?” you asked.

“Not many of my kind out in public. Do you always ask this many questions?” 

“Yes.”

“Get settled. We’re leaving.”

You looked up from the baby who you’d been fawning over and smiled up at the imposing figure before you. 

“Twenty percent,” you said to the suit of armor, testing your luck. He tilted his head to the right, considering it. The T of his visor was inscrutable.

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

* * *

You are chatty, blunt, and not nearly as afraid of him as you think you should be. You know he’s a big strong warrior, but he’s pretty slow to anger. If anything, he’ll just ignore you, and if he gets tired of you talking, he’ll walk away from you. 

After the first day, you figure out that he really doesn’t like to speak unless there is information he needs to relay to you, and there was a lot of information to give you on that first day.

“He listens to you,” Mando observes one day, about a week after you come aboard. 

“Does he?,” you ask, eyebrows lifting in surprise, “Earlier he ate a ball bearing he found on the floor _after_ I told him I wasn’t going to help him if he started choking.” 

Mando grunts and you can’t tell if it’s a laugh or groan. 

“Do you want some rations?” you ask, holding out a packet of jerky. 

“No,” he says. He turns around and clamors back up the ladder to the cockpit. 

You have never met anyone like him. You already struggle with reading tone and facial expressions, and he has neither. The vocoder keeps his voice a raspy, even monotone and the helmet makes him look perpetually stern. You like the lack of eye contact. Maker, you don’t understand why just about every species in the galaxy insists on eye contact. And if they have more than two eyes? Where are you supposed to look? It makes your hands sweaty. 

You can’t avoid it with Peanut -- his eyes are the biggest thing on his body besides his ears -- but you don’t mind that. His eye contact is sweet, curious, quiet. He brings you inexplicable peace. 

And so life goes for several months. You get to a new location, Mando hides the ship as well as he can, and he leaves you for days or weeks at a time. You’re always well-supplied but when the end of your third week on Dagobah (of all the makerforsaken planets to be on for three weeks) passes, you find yourself getting worried. 

He _always_ comes back, you think in an attempt to soothe yourself. Okay, yeah, but that’s stupid reasoning -- _obviously_ he always comes back, if he didn’t come back there wouldn’t be a chance for him to _not_ come back. The baby starts to sense your concern and is much clingier than usual. 

He climbs into your lap and plays with the end of your long braid, babbling sweetly. You always wonder what he’s saying when he does that. You think, sometimes, that you can sense what he means, and that you can make him sense your thoughts, but you don’t know how. You pat the top of his little fuzzy, wrinkly head. 

“You like the braid, huh?” you ask, “I want to chop the lot of it off.” Maintaining long hair on a ship was harder than you thought it’d be. Not a lot of chances to wash it.

“Eh?” he says, looking at you with big eyes, and you laugh. It’s getting dark outside, and that’s your cue to put the little nugget to bed. If you don’t, he’ll be up all night. You wonder if his species is naturally nocturnal. After you settle him into his hammock, you close the door and settle down to inspect your bow. You must have the most well-cared-for energy bow in the galaxy. There just isn’t a lot to do after the baby goes to sleep on this stupid swamp planet.

Just as you finish putting it back together, you hear what sounds like movement just outside the ship’s door, which is open to entice a breeze into the overly humid hull. The swamp is not a quiet place, but bipedal footsteps have much more distinct sounds than a passing bogwing or dragonsnake. 

_Splash. Splash. Splash._

It sounds like someone is running _around_ the ship. 

Seems like you may get to use your weapon after all. Mando always lets you know when he’s close on the communicator so he doesn’t startle you. He knows you won’t hesitate to use your weapon, and he doesn’t fool himself into thinking you’re not an excellent shot. The beskar can’t protect him if an arrow goes between the cracks of his suit. And your shots are exactly that good. 

If it’s not him, then it’s an enemy. He is _emphatic_ about this mantra. Even if it’s just some passerby. 

“You aim to kill, and you don’t worry about it.” 

“Okay, Mando, whatever you say.” 

He’s trying to alleviate any guilt you might have at killing a living thing, but it will not be the first person you kill to protect something you love. He doesn’t know that and you don’t have any plans to tell him.

“I’m serious,” he’d said sternly. You’d cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, Papa _,_ I’ll kill any swamp witch that might come by looking for some spare rations.” He’d reminded you of your own father just then, scolding you for not taking things seriously enough for his liking. He wasn’t amused by the joke. He’d turned around, cape swishing dramatically, said “I’ll be back,” and disappeared into the swamps. 

You get ready to follow your employer’s instructions, and then hear something else -- a _second_ set of footsteps? Well, _fuck_. Making sure the baby is safely sealed away, you crouch down behind a crate just outside the ship’s gate, intending to take them both out from a distance. You can do hand-to-hand if necessary, but you’d rather not take on two at once. 

The swamp is pitch black at this point, and you can barely see. Your night vision has never been very good. Then out of the corner of your eye, you see the two of them making their way toward the open door at full speed. You position your arrow and pull twice on the string; both energy blasts miss. 

“What the _fuck_?” you mutter, heart rate rising. You don’t know _where_ this anxiety is coming from. And then the fucking bow string _snaps_ , despite being the most well-cared-for-weapon in the galaxy, so you do the only thing you can think to do, which is throw the damn thing at the closest adversary. It hits him square in the forehead and knocks him backward. You’re not going down without a fight, so you take a chance and run toward the second person that you can barely make out in the darkness, pull your fist back, and punch him where you assume a throat is. 

You hear a wheeze, and then a familiar voice crackles through a vocoder, “Dank FARRIK, it’s ME!”

Whoops.

“Oh gods, Mando, I’m so sorry!”

“Nice...punch,” he wheezes, massaging his throat. He bends down to pick up the other form, an unlucky Trandoshan, by the neck. 

“Thanks. Quarry?” you ask, pointing to the reptilian form.

“He got out of his binders and was trying to steal the ship.”

“Sucks for him.”

Mando stomps up onto the ship, his armor clanging noisily, and throws the guy into the carbonite freezing unit. You place your hands on your hips in annoyance.

“Keep it down,” you say, “I just got the baby to sleep.”

Mando stops and tilts his head down at you, like he’s waiting for you to be done. In that moment you remember this man has been gone for _three weeks_ and you're still hyped up on adrenaline so you slap his cuirass and say, “And just where in the hell have _you_ been?” Mando does nothing, likely out of shock at the _audacity_ of the woman in front of to slap a Mandalorian and chide him like a child out past curfew. 

“On a hunt,” he says shortly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back? You were gone for weeks! I could have killed you!”

“Communicator broke, and not with that aim,” he grunts, stepping into the ‘fresher and sealing the door. The son of a bitch really knows how to twist a knife.

“You can’t just lock yourself in there. I was freaking out, and then this quarry comes in and tries to kill me and then you’re noisy and the baby JUST got to sleep and---” 

The ‘fresher door opens and Mando comes out, seemingly having reached the end of his rope. He’s in front of you before you can react to him coming out of the other room, silently despite his heavy armor, and makes you feel very small.

“ _Look,_ ” he says, his voice low and growling, thrusting his index finger onto your chest, making you stumble back a little, “I _hired_ you to watch the kid, not ask questions about where I have been. I was doing my fucking job, and I suggest you do yours and mind the business I _give_ you. Are we clear?” 

Your natural inclination is to argue and your eyes narrow in preparation because you never did have much of a sense of self-preservation, but the protest dies in your throat when you note just how close he is to you and realize his finger is lingering on your sternum. If he didn’t have a helmet on, you’d be able to feel his breath on you. He’s so _close_. 

You can feel his frustration rolling off of him. He _could_ have picked you up and slammed you against the wall and you actually don’t think you’d mind it that much. The thought comes unbidden and you try to push it aside. The combination of his proximity, his immense size, the fact that he’s still touching you, and the coppery scent of dried blood and sweat was overwhelming your senses and it was really, really...hot?

“I understand,” you say quietly, trying to keep your voice both even and defiant because fuck him and whatever this mood is, that’s why.

“Good,” he says, and you imagine his teeth are gritted by the tight way the word comes out. All at once he’s moved away from you and his absence is almost as overwhelming as his presence was before.

“We’re leaving. Get the kid and meet me in the cockpit.”

You only nod and watch him walk away. When he climbs back up the ladder, you exhale. Why was that so hot? _Was_ it hot? Or have you just not been laid in months? You feel pulsing heat between your legs and--no, it was definitely hot. 

You’re not sure what to do with this development, but you know you need some time to think about it. You raise your hand to your chest and massage the spot his finger had been moments ago. The skin is still warm from his touch.


	2. the nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two weeks of awkwardly avoiding the Mandalorian, you need some time to prepare yourself for the worst. After finding you in a cantina having had one too many glasses of spotchka, Mando takes you back to the ship and hopes a good night's sleep will help. But you can't run away from your own subconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com
> 
> I did some experimenting with changing POVs, so I hope this is as coherent as I think it is. Added new tags, but there are strong notes of past trauma and violence involving the Reader's family. This is also a little longer than I anticipated but here we are.

If you’re being honest, spotchka isn’t _really_ your thing, but this dusty little cantina in Mos Eisley doesn’t have a huge variety, and you desperately need a drink. There are several much larger cantinas further into the city center where you can probably get something that doesn’t taste like the ocean, but you prefer to stay out of the crowds. You’d also grown accustomed to the taste during an extended stay in a little village on Sorgan that farmed the creatures spotchka was made from.

Things have just been so damn tense since you’d admonished Mando about how long he’d be gone. The two of you only interact when absolutely necessary and you find yourself missing him. It’s different when he’s gone on a hunt. You know he’s gone for a reason, and you know he’ll be back. This is something completely different. He’s there, but he’s _not_. 

Before the fight, the two of you had gotten into a routine when he got back from hunts that you hadn’t even noticed. A month or two into your extended stay on his vessel, instead of going immediately into the cockpit, he started sitting down on a crate and listening while you’d chatter about Peanut’s adventures in hiding from you and trying to eat anything nearby if you didn’t feed him fast enough, regardless of its edibility. Mando even nods occasionally to let you know he’s listening. 

He holds Peanut on his knee and bounces him, and the three of you just...stay like that for a few hours. Even when he’s exhausted and you know he has to be starving. You know it’s just because he misses his son, but it’s nice to talk to another adult. Or _at_ another adult. 

All the silence and isolation is starting to get to you. He left for a couple of hunts in the two weeks since the incident, and when he comes back now, he nods at you in a reluctant greeting and takes the baby up to the cockpit with him, leaving you completely alone. You don’t think he’s cruel enough to be doing it on purpose, but you don’t know how to approach the matter. It hurts so much worse than it should.

You’d had plenty of time to contemplate what got you so fired up that night. Sure, it was shitty of him to be gone for that long and not find some way to let you know, but you’d had shipmates in the past who stayed gone for weeks at a time and told you nothing and you didn’t care one bit. After all, he always left you with supplies for several months, and you knew that he’d get the communicator fixed at some point if he was much longer.

No, your fury didn’t (at least, not completely) come from any of the selfish reasons you told yourself it did. _You_ were mad because in addition to being scared that he’d died and left you alone with an infant and ship you didn’t know how to fly, you’d gotten worried about _him_ . Because you _care_ about him. 

To make matters much worse, you’ve started to feel his eyes on you a lot when you’re actually in the same room recently, burning a hole into you through the metal helmet. He has to move his entire head to look in any direction; he isn’t exactly subtle in close proximity. You’ve resisted being your usual self and snapping, “What?” at him when you notice it because the air itself crackles with tension. The situation is too delicate to confront. You know he said it was a long haul thing, but he really seems like he’s had enough of your presence.

And then again, maybe you’re just overthinking it. You overthink _everything_ , so it’s definitely not out of the realm of possibility. 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the whole shitshow. You couldn’t take it anymore, so when you landed to refuel outside Mos Eisley, you told him he could watch his son on his own for a couple of hours while you took some time to yourself. You met zero resistance, which only reinforced your suspicions. Mando just held out his arms to take Peanut from you. You kissed the baby on the head before you gave him over, trying to swallow the fear that this could be your last time seeing him. Either of them. 

You’d packed a couple of essentials with you in your backpack, just in case, slung your bow on your back, and hopped onto your speeder. You don’t think he’d steal it on purpose, but you also didn’t want to be stranded on a planet with no means of local transportation. And as miserable as things had been for the last two weeks, you really wouldn’t be surprised if you came back to find the ship gone. The thought makes your heart drop, but you square your shoulders, nod at him, and set off to douse your worries in alcohol.

* * *

You always try your best to look as intimidating as possible. You’re in decent shape, but you don’t have any noticeable muscles or any sort of intimidating posture. You’re actually very strong, but no one knows that until you’re flipping them onto their back, and you really don’t like to fight. So, you rely on your practiced Go Fuck Yourself face that you’ve spent years perfecting to get the message across. And, of course, the energy bow you wear conspicuously on your back. The whole ensemble tends to scare off most people, and you can have a drink or four in peace.

Now you’re sitting at the bar sipping a glass of blue liquid alone. You’ve run off several interested parties by glaring at them silently until they back off, a trick you’ve learned from the Mandalorian. This leaves you to people-watch in peace. It’s your favorite pastime, especially on the Outer Rim planets. There were so many different species, so many shady business dealings happening around you, it’s hard not to get lost in everyone else’s lives. 

After your third glass of spotchka you see the cantina doors slide open and the dusky light seeps in. You realize your head is swimming, and you're feeling giggly. This stuff is stronger than you remember. Or maybe nannyhood has lowered your tolerance. You catch a glimpse of shiny armor in your peripheral. A raspy, modulated voice says your name right in your ear. You spin around slowly on your stool to face a gleaming suit of armor, the low light in the cantina bouncing off the shining surface. 

“Mandooooo,” you say, deepening your voice, imitating his serious tone. He doesn’t say anything. 

“Well?” you prod.  
“You’ve been gone for four hours.”  
“Mmhmm,” you agree.  
“You said it would only be a couple of hours.”  
“Frustrating, huh?” you say fiercely. Your sipping your drink and twirling on your seat, which is not an _excellent_ plan in your current state. You wobble and prepare yourself for the inevitable faceplant. Mando’s hand shoots out and catches you before you can break your nose. His hand grips your bare bicep while you steady yourself. 

“We should go,” he says, “Can you walk?”

“Of COURSE I can walk!” you say indignantly, immediately stumbling toward the door. 

“Her tab---” the bartender droid says, and Mando throws some credits its way. 

“This should cover it,” Mando snaps at the droid, making haste to catch up with you. You are now attempting to march in a dignified way around the side of the building where your speeder is parked, but you’re stumbling a little. You hold your hands out to your side to balance yourself and toddle defiantly. 

“Let me help you walk, kiddo,” he says carefully, walking up behind you, placing a hand on your waist. You soften a little at the endearment. This drunken clumsiness is new -- he’s never seen you drink anything other than water, and you're usually rather nimble and quiet. Here you are now, tearing through an alleyway like an angry varactyl. 

“Fine!” you say.  
“Lean on my arm,” he says.  
“You’re too pokey,” you whine.   
“I’m _what_ ?”  
“You’re pokey. All this armor. Even your face is pokey.”  
“You can’t see my face.”  
“Your _face_ is your _helmet_. Pokey face.”

He sighs that sigh again. That sigh that sounds like he personally has been asked to decide the fate of the galaxy and you are preventing him from doing so. You like that sigh so much you imitate it and he tilts his head down to look at you. 

“If you don’t let me help you I’m going to pick you up and carry you back to your speeder.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you ask, amused with your little joke, starting to laugh and then shrieking when he lifts you up and throws you over his shoulder.

“You put me down!” you say, half-heartedly beating his back with clumsy fists.

“No.”

You suddenly feel tired, and you’re pleased to see you’ve made it to the speeder. Mando lowers you onto the seat, setting you in front of him and settling behind you.

“Don’t think it’s a good idea for me to driiiiive,” you slur earnestly. He surprises you with an actual laugh. It’s a bark of a thing, unpracticed, and you want to fall into it. You want to make it happen more. 

“You’re not driving, kid. Just don’t want you to fall off.”

“Well, you’re more comfortable this way, at least,” you murmur, relaxing into his chest, inhibitions gone with that last sip of spotchka. You don’t feel him stiffen at the familiarity of the action. 

“Okay,” he says. Mando doesn’t know what else to say. He almost never knows what to say to you, but you usually talk enough for the both of you. He finds that he’s missed your chatter. 

“I am a princess,” you say dramatically, trying to tempt another laugh out of him, “I have been rescued from a good time by a shiny knight who hates fun.”

He only grunts in response.

You fall silent and get lost in your own blurry thoughts. Most of them involve how well you fit against him, burrowing further into him. You hazily think that this might not be okay, but he hasn’t made any moves to push you away. Mando never does anything he doesn't want to do.

“I’m cold,” you whisper to no one, shivering involuntarily, but he hears you. You feel movement behind you and feel the thin fabric of his cape wrap around to cocoon you between his arms and chest. You feel safer than you have in years. 

Mando tries to control his breathing and rapid heartbeat. You feel so unexpected in his arms and _so_ good. Thoughts form that he knows he can’t ever voice, and he tries to push them away. 

“Hold tight,” he says hoarsely, and kicks off the speeder.

You fall asleep on the way to the ship and he tries desperately to ignore your soft, steady breathing against him. He carefully picks you up off of the speeder after opening the ship’s door, trying hard not to wake you. 

He’s observed that you’re a light sleeper, and you seem to sleep even less than he does. It’s kind of nice to see you peaceful for once. He lays you down on the nest of blankets on the floor you’ve made into your bed, unclasps the cloak from his neck, and leaves you wrapped in it. He then leaves to check on the kid who is sleeping soundly in his hammock, exactly where he left him.

Mando decides you’ll leave at first light to give the two of you some time to sleep. When he walks back out into the hold, however, you are wide awake. He sighs. 

“You should sleep,” he tells you. 

“’M not good at sleeping.”

Of _course_ you want to argue.

“I know, but you don’t need to have a hangover going into warp. It’s not pleasant.”  
“Gonna stay up till ‘m sober!”   
“At least drink some water.”  
“Fine!,” you huff. Now you’re just being petulant, but he thinks you also might be teasing him. He tries to hide a laugh with his back turned to you, filling up a metal cup in the ‘fresher sink.

“I heard that! Yoooou! Think I’m funny.”

Mando freezes like he’s been caught doing something wrong. 

“S’okay, I won’t tell,” you murmur, “S’not my _job_ to make you laugh. Sorry you had to come find me. Hired me to watch the kid and not bother you, but you still had to come chase after me,” you say, and your throat suddenly constricts. You sound sad, he thinks. Maybe you’re just tired? Maker, he is _bad_ at this. 

He flinches behind his helmet, confronted with your feelings he’d been trying to ignore. He had felt bad about his little outburst immediately and chose to deal with it by ignoring you for two weeks. Because you were his employee, and he didn’t feel like he owed you any explanation. When you handed the baby to him and left with your bag and speeder, he knew he was wrong. 

He remembers your face contorting in a way that he didn’t recognize and sending a spike of guilt through his heart, despite your immediate recovery and confirmation of understanding. His chest feels heavy when he thinks about it. 

He sits down cross-legged on the end of your little pallet and immediately feels a dozen screw heads jam into the unarmored part of his leg and hands you the mug. “That was…unfair of me. I know that you were worried. Left you alone for 3 weeks with the kid and didn’t contact you--” Mando stops himself, realizing he’s speaking more than he wants to.

You watch him, brow knitted. Now you’re not only drunk, you’re hallucinating. Mando hasn’t talked this much since he first brought you on the ship, but you should still probably answer him. You gather all your strength and inner sobriety, willing yourself not to slur your words, wanting to get this answer right because you want him to see that you’re worth keeping around. 

“You don’t have to apologize, Mando. I think I got upset because I’ve been traveling with you for months now, and I know you don’t get attached to people easily and I know you’re paying me to be here, but I thought we were at least...friendly acquaintances, if not friends, but I misread our...arrangement,” you ramble, “That’s not your fault. It’s on me.”

Mando stares at you, the black T as inscrutable as ever. 

“Never said we weren’t friends,” he says.

You gape at him. You are far too drunk for this conversation, and for once you’re having trouble keeping your eyes open. 

“You...don’t ever talk to me if it’s not about the baby. Think this is the first non-Peanut related conversation we’ve had since you brought me aboard. You turn around and walk out of the room when I’m mid-sentence,” you say, trying to keep the dejection out of your voice.

Mando is quiet for a moment and then--

“Oh,” he says.

You have a lot of other things to say, but you're too tired, and too cold. His cape is not as warm when it’s not connected to him and your little floor nest is frigid at the best of times. 

“Gods it’s fucking _freezing_ ,” you mumble to yourself, looking around for something heavier to pull over yourself. To your surprise, Mando stands up and finds your cloak, the green one that you bought at a market stall on one of the dozens of planets you’d stopped on, specifically for its warm material. He knew that because you’d chattered at him about it like you always do when he accompanies you to get supplies. He likes this cloak because it makes your eyes stand out. He likes your eyes. He likes a lot of other things about you that he tries not to dwell on. He covers you in the cloak. 

“How do you sleep down there?” he asks.

“I don’t, really,” you admit, “If I lay down for too long on this floor my back hurts and it’s always freezing down here, and it’s hard to sleep sitting up.”

This catches him off guard. You’ve never complained about this before. Why would you keep sleeping on the floor if hurt? 

“I see,” he says. You nod sleepily.

“Get some sleep,” he says, but you’re already gone. He feels a tug on his ankle. “Not you too,” he groans at the little green creature staring up at him. 

“Ebba,” the child says and points to your sleeping form.

“Okay, but don’t wake her up.”

The baby slithers into the covers next to you and is asleep on your chest within minutes. Mando looks at his own bunk and feels another unwanted surge of guilt. No wonder you’re at the end of your rope. You hadn’t said a word about any discomfort even after he came back from being gone for three weeks, snapping at you, and then ignoring you. And that’s _after_ he’s already made it known you’re basically trapped here. The least he can do is make you a little more comfortable. 

He spends the next few minutes quietly gathering your things up and moving his own out of the little bunk. Neither of you have much, but you do have a habit of hoarding little trinkets and mementos. He clumsily puts them on the one narrow shelf, trying to make it look like a place you might like to spend time in. He decides he’ll get his rest in the cockpit tonight.

Mando turns back when he gets to the ladder and feels something fierce and unbidden rise in his heart when his gaze falls on your softly breathing form and his son. The child’s little fist is curled around the end of your braid. He remembers this feeling -- home. Like when his parents were there. And then they weren’t. 

He shakes his head. This is foolish. You’re his employee. He’d already crossed several lines he’d been fighting to stay behind tonight. Mando scurries up the ladder and disappears into the cockpit, and the ship is dark and still. 

* * *

_Warm sunlight kisses your bare shoulders. You’re laying on a blanket, propped up on your elbows, eyes closed. You can hear the roar of a waterfall near you and the quiet lapping of waves on the shore. You open your eyes and smile, inhaling the scent of grass and salty air. Naboo. Home. How did you get back here?_

_You stand up, a long, gauzy sundress falling around you. You hear a familiar voice call your name and you turn around._ _“_

_Papa!” you say, and run into his arms._

_“We’ve missed you,” he says, “Come inside.” Your childhood home lies before you, flower boxes in the windows and ivy trailing down the outer walls. Your mother walks outside, arms open to greet you. You feel yourself getting ready to run into them, but lightning flashes in the purple sky in front of you, and fear clutches your heart._

_“We need to leave, Mama,” you say, but she stands there, frozen. The sky crackles. You look to your father, who repeats, “Come inside.” But you can’t go inside. You need to run. All of you._

_A bolt of lightning strikes the house in front of you and it bursts into flames. Shadowy figures descend from behind the house. Your mother is gone. Your father stands in front of you, holding your hands, until one of the figures snatches him from you. Your mother’s screaming face flashes in front you._

_“This isn’t how this happens,” you cry, electricity running through your fingers.  
_ _“You could have saved us,” she snarls. Blood runs from her nose, and she screams.  
_ _“Please, no, no, no, I’m so sorry,” you choke out between sobs, “I tried, I really tried.”_

_You try to grab her, but she slips through your hands, and you hear a piercing scream from behind you._

_Peanut hovers over the water, screaming for help. You run and run and run, and Mando yells from your right._

_“He’ll die!”_

_The fear in his voice propels you forward, but you’re too late. The baby falls into the water, and the world goes black._ _  
_

* * *

You wake up violently, throwing all the covers off of you, gasping for air and sobbing, tears streaming down your face. Before you can stop yourself, you start yelling for the baby, who is absolutely nowhere to be found. Your hands shake while you tear the hold apart trying to find any sign of the Mando or Peanut. They need to be safe, you have to make sure they’re safe. 

When you hear a wail from the cockpit, it knocks some sense into you, and you realize that yes, obviously, they’re both up there. You hear the Mandalorian scramble down the ladder holding the baby in one arm, clearly alarmed at your yelling. Before you can make any attempt to hide your face or turn around so he can’t see you, Mando is already in front you. Why did he have to be so _fast_?

“I---” you choked out, but you can’t calm down enough to explain. 

“What happened? What _happened_ ? Are you okay, kiddo? Did someone get in here? Are you hurt?” he demands, voice rising slightly with urgency. The baby wails more. Your head _hurts_ and the noises are too much and you don’t have answers for his questions and the scent of spotchka is still in your nose, and you can’t handle it anymore. You cover your ears, kneel onto the cold floor, and scream. 

Everything goes very still and your shriek bounces sharply off of the metal walls. Mando has no idea what to do, but the baby stops wailing immediately. He reaches his stubby little arms out to you, but Mando shushes him. Your eyes are still shut tight and your breathing is erratic. 

You hear Mando shuffle, like he’s taking a step back. You know this is all over. You don’t dare open your eyes. You can’t see the look on his face, obviously, but you’d learned to read his body language and you did not want to see him holding his baby far away from you, horrified he’d ever trusted you. But then you feel Mando’s presence move closer to you. He kneels down in front of you.

“Hey,” he says softly, “Look at me. Please.” His voice holds a surprising tenderness. Your heart clenches. You brace yourself and open one eye. 

Peanut is in his pram, staring at you with large, worried eyes. In front of you, the Mandalorian is kneeling in front of you. He holds his gloved hand out as if to brush away your tears, but thinks better of it and puts his hand on your shoulder instead.

“It’s okay. What happened?” 

“I...it’s just, this whole thing is so unprofessional and I just...I know you’re going to leave me here and I’m scared, I don’t know where I am, and I had a horrible nightmare and I haven’t even fed Peanut yet--” but you choke on the nickname because it hurts too much.

“Why would I leave you here? I fed him. I figured you could...could use some sleep.”

“You’re not firing me?” you ask him, eyes wide.

“I’m closer to taking you to a medic,” he says earnestly. 

You hiccup. You realize now what it must look like. He found you in a bog methodically reassembling an energy bow, and currently you're on the floor of his ship having a meltdown. 

“This dream...and then I got scared, and I don’t know why it happens. But it happens when I have the dream. It hasn’t happened in a long time. And...and I’m so sorry about last night. I was just sure you were done with me. That you were going to leave me here. I was trying to make it easier for you.”

“Is that what you think? That I’d just throw you away?” he says, a little harsher than intended, and you flinch at his tone. “I--sorry."

You nod in understanding. “It’s not that I think badly of you. It’s just...it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I wasn’t on Dathomir to take in the sights,” you sigh. Mando is, as usual, quiet. You hang your head down and close your eyes again. You have one hell of a headache. 

You look around the bare hold to ground yourself and wonder, briefly, if he’d thrown all of your things out.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?”   
“Because we have to go?”  
“We can wait a couple of hours.”  
“Okay...but, um, where’s my stuff?”   
“In my bunk. Not---no!” he says, seeing your confusion, “I’m giving you my bunk. I can sleep standing up. I should have made sure you were comfortable. I should have asked.” Your watery smile is enough to let him know he’s done the right thing. 

“Walking is hard right now,” you murmur to yourself, turning your body to lean your head against the wall, eyes closed. You feel two strong arms loop under your knees and upper back. 

“Come on.”

“Okay,” you say, too tired to argue. You wrap your arms around Mando’s neck, and you accidentally graze the bare skin between his cowl and the bottom of his helmet. It’s soft and warm. He _is_ real. But then he freezes for a second and you yank your hands back like you’d been burned.

“I’m so sorry, I---” you start.

“It’s fine,” he says gruffly. He sets you down as gently as a man who tosses people into the air on a regular basis can, brings the blankets up to cover your body, and before you can even look around the bunk, you’ve fallen back asleep. 

“Ebba,” the baby calls from his pram.   
“No. She’s sick.”  
“Eh?” his big ears lower sadly.   
“You can see her later. Let’s go. Come on,” Mando says, taking the child out of his pram and putting him in the crook of his arm. 

He finds himself, once again, loath to leave you. He removes his glove and reaches up to touch the back of his neck where your work-calloused fingers had lingered for just a second longer than you’d meant to. 

_Shit_.


	3. the marketplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You need a break and Mando wants to help. You go to a "safe" planet for some R&R, but nothing is ever that simple, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com
> 
> As you may be able to tell by the updated tags and rating, it's getting spicy, babies! This is the first time I've written anything remotely smutty, like ever, so I hope it's decent. Shout out to my besties, Briana and Amber, who I love and definitely dragged into reading and betaing. Beta-ing? How do we verb this? 
> 
> Also, this is so much longer than the first two chapters, soooo I hope y'all like reading.
> 
> Okay enjoy!

Over the next few weeks, things slowly go back to normal. Mando is still quiet, of course, only speaking when he has something to say. But he doesn’t ignore you anymore, and he doesn’t walk out of the room when he feels overwhelmed by the amount of information you throw his way. You’re both making small steps toward understanding each other. When you tap him insistently on the shoulder, he knows what you’re saying is important. When he shakes his leg and looks away, you know it’s time to be quiet, or to lock yourself in your room for a bit. 

Your _room._ You haven’t had a room of your own since you were a girl. The space is small, but it’s _something_. When you’d woken up later in the day, exhausted and puffy-eyed but miraculously hangover free, you saw that all of your trinkets were lined up clumsily on a shelf. Space had been cleared for more of them. 

A gleaming blue stone given to you by your mother when you were a child, larger than the rest, was placed in the middle, like he had attempted a decorative arrangement. It wasn’t what you would have done yourself, but you didn’t have the heart to move anything. The softness of the gesture was so rare that you wanted to remember it forever.

One day Mando comes back from a hunt and he is in a _mood_. The quarry fought him the whole way back and tried to talk his way out of it, promising more money, and blah blah blah. He feels his bad temper rising even when he slams the quarry into the carbonite unit, and all he wants is to see his kid. And _you_. He shakes his head, like the movement will extinguish what’s going on inside of him. 

He finds you in the pathetic excuse of a kitchen--which is really more of a sink and three crates flipped upside down--sprinkling water onto portion bread for the three of you with his son balancing on your hip. Your hair is out of its usual braid, up in a bun, small hairs sticking out every which way, and the strap of your tank top has slipped off of your shoulder. 

The sight makes his mouth go dry and he feels his face turn red as his eyes travel up your neck and to your mouth, which is rapidly telling him something that he has completely zoned out on.

“Are you listening to me?” you ask, setting the portion bread down and putting your other hand on your hip, which you did when you were close to admonishing him.   
“I--what?” he asks, jerking his head up to meet your face. You roll your eyes in that impatient way you do when you have to repeat yourself.   
"I was _saying_ that your little monster of a son was absolutely out of control while you were gone,” you say.  
“Hmm?” Mando asks, plucking the baby from your hip and sitting on one of the crates, settling Peanut onto his knee and breaking up little pieces of bread to feed him.  
“Well,” you start, “First of all, he tried to steal the ship--”  
“He did _what_ ?”   
“I was wiping the control panel down, it’s awful up there, and I set him down for _one minute_ to reach something and the next thing I knew he’d turned the damn thing on and he was floating? When did he start floating?”

Mando lets himself chuckle. 

“Oh, _and_ he keeps stealing my stuff and hiding it.”  
“What stuff?”

You’re suddenly shy when you have to tell him.

“You know, my little trinkets and stones and stuff. He keeps taking them off the shelf---like, pulling them down with his baby magic powers, and I have to rearrange them to, uh, the way you put them on there.”  
“Oh. Well, you don’t have to keep them on the shelf,” Mando offers.   
“I like them there,” you say. There’s a pause and neither of you says a thing, you just let your little confession hang in the air.   
“He needs to be around other kids,” you huff, and then immediately feel like you’ve said something you shouldn't have.   
“I didn’t mean--” you start.  
“You’re right,” he says at the same time. You look at him curiously.  
“I have a couple of friends in Nevarro City. They turned the place around and they have a school. Maybe he could...play with the other kids and get it out of his system.”  
“Well, maybe. Is that allowed?,” you ask with uncertainty. It seems a little risky.  
“It’s a safe place. No Imps. They have a big market there with different vendors. You like---buying stuff, right?”

It takes everything inside of you not to laugh, but you can’t hide the smile. What a question. 

“I--yes. I mean. But don’t you have bounties?”

“I can take a couple of days. I’ll, um. I’ll go with you. And they have a cantina that apparently has good soup. We could go and eat? Well, you could eat.”

Good _soup_?

Sometimes, with the way he speaks, you can tell it’s the first time he’s ever said the words in that specific combination. It’s almost like he’s asking you on a date. Obviously, he isn’t, but you like the idea of spending some time outside of the ship, and he’s right. You _do_ like to buy stuff. 

* * *

Nevarro City is bustling. You’ve heard stories about the place, but it’s clearly been cleaned up. There are children running and playing in the streets. You even leave your bow back on the ship at Mando’s insistence that he can handle anything, happy to travel a little lighter than usual.

“I need to make a stop,” Mando says. Mando is still loaded down with weapons, but he’s a Mandalorian, and their religion dictates the presence of weapons. You know that because he told you once when you asked why he needed to be armed to go into a tiny village on a backwater planet for supplies. You hitch the baby onto your hip and look longingly at the marketplace further ahead. “We’ll go after we get him settled. There’s someone I need to see.” 

You raise your eyebrows in a silent question. 

“Let’s go, kiddo,” he says, and he surprises you by putting his large hand on the small of your back, guiding you in front of him. The protective gesture brings a small gasp to your throat, which you swallow immediately. 

He guides you a little ways down the street and steers you into a nondescript building. Inside you see a woman sitting behind a desk, a terminal in front of her. She’s doing paperwork. 

“I’m busy,” she says, not looking up. 

“Cara Dune, Marshal of the New Republic. I heard rumors you might have gone legit,” Mando crackles through his vocoder. You’re surprised at the easy way he talks to her. You’ve never heard him mention her before. Not that you’ve ever really heard him mention anyone. 

The woman looks up, breaking into a wide smile, and says wryly, “I wouldn’t go that far.” She’s _beautiful_. She stands up to shake his hand, and you have to crane your neck upward to see her when she gets to her full height. You suddenly feel like a child. Her dark hair is cut short and her eyes sparkle when she smiles. She’s just your type. 

The woman smiles at you and sticks her hand out. “Cara Dune,” she says, clearly knowing Mando well enough to know that he would not be perceptive enough to introduce the two of you. You balance the baby on your hip and stick a hand out to her. Her grip is firm and her strong, warm hand envelops your own. You feel your neck turn red. You introduce yourself shyly, and Mando swings his head back and forth between the two of you. 

“Anyway…,” he says, clearing his throat, “I, uh, thought you may wanna see the kid,” he says to Cara. Cara smiles at Peanut and Peanut babbles at her, holding his stubby little arms out to her. So they’d met? You hand him over and she settles him in the crook of her arm. You’re trying to avoid eye contact because she makes you blush. 

“You have a job around here, Mando?” Cara asks. He shakes his head, and you spot him fidgeting. He’s feeling uncomfortable, but you don’t know why. 

“Kid needs some time away from the ship. Heard you had a school out here now. _She_ thought it might be a good idea for him to be around other kids for a few days,” he says, nodding toward you. You smile awkwardly, feeling put on the spot, then whip your head around to Mando.

“You left out the part where the little womprat tried to steal the ship,” you snap. Cara laughs, and you blush again.

“Well, we’ll take care of him,” she says, “Follow me.” Cara leads you out of the little building and around the corner. You all walk a little ways in the direction of the market before she asks, “What are _you_ two doing? There’s a nice inn around if you wanted some time--”

Your eyes get wide and you hear Mando sputter behind you, “What? No. It’s not---no. We’re _not_ together,” he says. Harsh, you think. Cara purses her lips and says, “Hmm,” to Peanut, who gurgles happily at her. 

Mando feels bad as soon as he says it. He sees your face fall for a millisecond before it snaps back to your regular nervous smile. He doesn’t know how to take it back, so he tries to press forward, “We’re going to go get supplies and some other things from the marketplace.”

Cara smirks a little and comes to a stop. “This is it!” You walk inside the building and sure enough, there’s a classroom with a teacher droid at the front. Cara walks to the middle of the room and settles the baby in an empty desk. All the children coo at him, as you suspected they would. He’s _so_ cute. You kiss the top of his fuzzy head and Mando leans down and presses his helmet to the baby’s forehead. You’d seen the gesture before, just before he went on long hunts. “They’ll have a break soon,” Cara assures you. 

She walks with you and Mando out of the door and back down to her building. You notice on the way out there are two armed guards at the door that weren’t there before. You don’t know how or when she did it, but you were glad she did. It lightened the guilt in your heart of leaving him with people who were strangers to you.

“Where’s Karga?” Mando asks her. 

“He’s doing some investigating into a spice smuggling ring in the desert. Wants to get it shut down before they get too close to the city,” she says.

“Never thought I’d hear that sentence,” he says. Cara laughs. You get from context that this wasn’t a man who generally followed the law. It’s nice to see Mando interact with someone else in a non-confrontational way, so you keep your questions to yourself. You amble awkwardly between the two of them. They both seem to be keeping an eye on you. 

When you arrive at Cara’s building again, she leans into you and says, “If you get tired of hanging out with the tin man here, let me know.” She winks and squeezes your bare shoulder firmly, and you let out a shaky laugh. If Mando notices anything, you can’t tell. His T-visor remains as blank as ever. She punches him in the arm and tells him not to be a stranger. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, breaking you out of your daydream as she retreats into the doorway. 

“What? Oh. Yes. Let’s go,” you say a little breathlessly. He tilts his head to the right, then nods, and the two of you set off. 

The market is _huge_. The stalls are situated in a large U-shape, with tables and a makeshift playground in the middle. There are vendors from everywhere, with _everything_. There are scarves and bedding and dresses and jewelry and strange, delicious looking food, as well as weapons and scrap and ship parts. 

You don’t know where to start. It would take days to get through the whole thing. And as luck would happen, you have a couple of days to kill. The overwhelming number of stalls forces you to figure out a plan, and you decide you’ll just start on the right side and wind your way around. 

Mando follows you quietly, sometimes putting his hand on the small of your back when it gets too crowded so he doesn’t lose you, and you have no idea how to tell him that it makes you weak in the knees. You toy with the idea of asking him what he thinks of a scarf, but you know the most you’d get is a nod. 

Mando pays for the first thing you try to buy before you can stop him. It’s a new blanket for your bunk. You pick it because the material is thick and soft and warm, and the bunk is just as frigid as everywhere else on the ship; you had grown tired of sleeping under your cloak. 

“A bonus,” he says. 

A bonus? For what? He doesn't elaborate further.

Mando doesn’t tell you he bought the thing because he feels responsible for your comfort now, since he knows you’ve been so uncomfortable for months. He knows he can’t fix your nightmares, but he can fix this. He pays for new pillows, too, and ignores your fussing when you tell him he can’t do that. 

You reach the middle of the stalls and you realize you’re starving and tired. 

“Where are we staying?” you ask. It’s too far to go back to the ship in a reasonable amount of time, even with the speeder. 

“Uh, that inn. That Cara talked about,” he says, “It has the cantina with the good soup.” He puts his hand on the back of his neck and rubs. Of all his nervous tics, this one is by far your favorite. 

The fucking soup. This guy wanted to take you to eat _soup_. 

“We should go get the baby,” you say and he nods in agreement. The two of you set off from the market, Mando steering you by the small of your back again. You wonder when he got so comfortable touching you there. Or anywhere. 

Mando doesn’t _know_ when he decided that he needed to keep his hand on you. He just knows that he needs to keep you in his sight. The crowd is large and you could slip away. He tells himself it’s to keep you near him, for safety, and not because he likes how your lower back curves into your ass, and he likes his hand being in that dip. That’s not it. He just wants you safe. 

The two of you pick the baby up from the school's daycare and he protests the loss of his playmates. 

“You can see them again tomorrow,” you tell him, touching your forehead to his small wrinkly one, and he coos at you like he understands. A few minutes later, you arrive at the inn, the baby’s pram floating beside you. After a long day, Peanut was asleep before you got halfway there. 

The inn is a nice place. There’s a cantina on the first floor with what look like brand new tables and booths. The walls are soft white stucco, and the dim light bounces soothingly around the room. It’s cozy. The innkeeper shows you to the room and your mouth falls open. 

There’s one fucking bed.

You turn around to insist to the innkeeper that you can’t have one bed, or ask if you can pay for a second room, but Mando’s already telling him it’s fine and sends him on his way. You cross your arms and look at him. 

“It’s fine,” he says, “He's busy. We’ll figure it out. Do you want to eat?”

Mando doesn’t know just the _what the hell_ he thinks he’s doing. He _should_ march out of the room and go ask the innkeeper for another room with two beds, but your presence makes him...not himself. All he knows is that he wants to spend the night as close to you as he can. As close as you’ll let him. 

“When are you going to eat?” you ask. He never eats. You don’t know how he isn’t constantly starving. When he does eat he finishes his food in less than a minute. You wonder, briefly, if he’s ever savored a meal, and you try to push down the sadness you feel about him never having enjoyed something as simple as a food. 

The bounty hunter shrugs, helmet tilting down to look at you, “I’ll bring something up to the room,” he assures you.

“Okay,” you say, “Let me change.”

You tuck the baby into his pram, making sure he’s asleep. It won’t do to bring him down to the cantina, he’ll wake up. Mando sees you fretting over leaving him. 

“He’ll be okay up here,” he says, gently. You relax a little and nod. If Mando says it’s okay, then it’s okay. 

You move to the ‘fresher to change clothes. You look at yourself in the mirror and decide to wrap your braid in a bun and put on a necklace. It’s not a date, you know that, it’s definitely _not_ a date. And he’ll definitely sleep on the floor. But a large, desperate part of you hopes neither of those things are true.

You decide to change into a dress you found in the marketplace that reminds you of home. It’s long, teal in color, and haltered at the neckline, with a sheer top layer that flows softly down your lower half. There are slits up the leg on each side. It’s more revealing than you’re used to, but the billowy chiffon makes you feel like you’re getting ready to have a picnic at the waterfalls that were in front of your old house. 

You walk out of the ‘fresher, nervous about your newly exposed skin. Mando’s helmet turns toward you and his gaze lingers on you long enough to make you bite your lip and turn away. 

“You look...nice,” he says. 

“Thanks. You look like a suit of beskar,” you say, trying to break the tension that had filled the room. 

He grunts, ignores your comment, turns around, and walks out of the door. 

“Oh, boo! Come on, I was teasing,” you call, scurrying after him, throwing a last look at the pram and locking the door behind you. 

Downstairs, the two of you sit in a round booth in the dimly lit cantina. You’re quiet for a while, tired from interacting with dozens of new people today. 

“Thank you for the blanket,” you say.

“Mm,” he says.

The waitress, a Twi’lek, brings your food. She asks if you’d like a drink, but you remember what happened the last time you indulged, and wave her away. 

“How do you know Cara?” you inquire. Mando tilts his head, studying you.  
“She helped me save the child from Moff Gideon,” he says, “And we had a run-in with an AT-ST on Sorgan.” 

He tells you more about the ex-shocktrooper and your eyes must get a little starry because the Mandalorian stops talking and cocks his head at you. He looks like he wants to say something and he starts twisting his fingers.

“What?” you ask, eyes narrowing at his anxious hands.  
“Nothing,” he says. And then--  
“What was that back there? Between you and Cara. Do you, um, do you like her?” he asks, the T of his visor looking somewhere above your head.   
“What’s it to you?” you ask. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he sounded jealous.  
“Nothing, I just, I didn’t know---”  
“That I’m bisexual?”  
“You like---”  
“No one is safe. And _she’s_ just my type,” you say and wiggle your eyebrows. He coughs, and it’s the funniest thing---he raises his hand to where his mouth should be and coughs into it. Despite the helmet. Like he’s playing people.   
“And you?” you ask, testing the waters.  
“I like...women, mostly,” he says. You want to come back to that “mostly” eventually, but you let it hang for now.  
“Hmm,” you say, sipping your soup, losing yourself in your own thoughts. 

Mando kicks himself for asking you about Cara. What did it matter if you two got together? You’re not his. You’re _not_ his. You’re free to fool around with whoever you want to. 

And it’s not like you’d fall in love or something, right? Cara didn’t seem like the type. But the way she put her hand around your arm and leaned into you...made you giggle and blush. He wants to do that to you. 

He is _desperately_ trying to hold himself together. You do things to him that he can’t explain. When you walked out of the ‘fresher in that dress, he thought about locking the door behind him and taking it off of you. He didn’t want to think something so lewd, but he had, and now your bare leg was almost touching him. You play with the stone on the necklace around your throat and he wonders what your skin would feel like under his bare fingertips.

“Where did you get that?” he asks before he can stop himself. “The stone? It’s usually on your shelf.”

You can’t help but smile because he remembers the stone being on your shelf. It’s a small thing but it makes your heart fill up.

“When I was a girl, my mother and I used to go on these long walks in the forest behind our house on Naboo in Lake Country. There were pebbles and rocks along the path and she’d always pick one out and give it to me to keep. I lost most of them when--when we lost our home. But I kept this one. It’s all I have left of her,” you say, trailing off. Mando sets his hands on the table and clasps them together. He’s relaxing, you think. He still has his eyes on everything, but his posture isn’t so stiff. 

“I lost my parents, too,” he says, taking you by surprise, “I’m a foundling. I don’t have anything left of them.” 

“Oh, Mando…” you say softly. You don’t want to ask too many questions. He folds up so easily. 

“Why do you have all those things?” he asks, changing the subject, “Your trinkets?”  
“They remind me of things that happened in the past,” you say.   
“Why do you need reminders of the past?”   
“I...I want to remember everything that helped me become who I am. And I’ve lost so much, I guess I just want to keep things for once. Even if they’re just little rocks.”

Mando stares at you, working out what you’ve said. He doesn’t want to remember _anything_. He doesn’t want to think about his parents, or how he lost his home. And _you_ wear a reminder of your greatest pain around your neck. How brave you must be, he thinks, to remind yourself of it everyday and not fall apart.

As you’d (privately) predicted, the soup was not that good, but you lie to him and say it is. You’re sure he can tell you’re lying, but he doesn’t say a word about it, just wraps your leftovers up and brings them upstairs for himself. 

You decide to take a shower to give him some time to eat. You don’t know how he lives with that helmet on, and you know he doesn’t get a lot of time without it now that you’re on the ship with him. The warm water trickles gently over you soothing your tired body. You think about his hand on the small of you back and sigh as quietly as you can. These walls are thin. 

Once the shower stops and you’re dressed, you call to him, “Can I come out?” 

“Yes,” he says. You exit with your eyes to the ground, just in case. “You can look up,” he assures you. You walk to the bed shyly, trying to hide your bare thighs under your sleep tunic. You’ve never been this undressed in front of him. Usually, you wore leggings along with your tunic to sleep in, but this room was far warmer than the Crest. 

“How are we doing this?” you ask. Mando stares at you, and you feel absolutely naked. 

“You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You know it's no use arguing, but you’re _so_ disappointed. But really, what did you expect? He would crawl into bed next to you, armor and all? So you wiggle your way under the blankets, and Maker, this bed is so _soft_. He turns the lights off and settles on the floor next to the bed. In the darkness, you feel brave.

“What happened to your parents?” you whisper. He’s quiet for so long that you’re sure he’s either fallen asleep or he’s just not going to answer, so you sigh and lean back and then---

“Our village was attacked by Separatist battle-droids when the Republic fell. My parents tried to hide me from the fighting. A Mandalorian saved me before a battle-droid could kill me, and brought me to their covert.” 

“That’s why you don’t like droids,” you say quietly. He doesn’t answer. You want to share with him after that 

“My parents died when our emergency housing was raided by a gang. After our home was destroyed during Cinder, just after the Empire fell. That’s why I left. But not before I killed every last person in that gang,” you say. The words are bitter on your teeth. You can't believe you said it aloud. You told yourself you’d never say it to anyone. 

You can hear him breathing under the helmet. Unfiltered. He sounds so human. 

“What a pair we make, huh?” he says. Your courage propels you to scoot toward the edge of the little bed and hang your arm over the side, searching for his hand. You slip your fingers between his gloved ones, and he lets you. Your breath catches at his long fingers curling around yours. You feel your eyes drooping. 

“Goodnight, Mando,” you whisper, and drift off. 

A few minutes later, something in him slips, and he says, “My name is Din.” You’re already fast asleep. In your dreams, a leather-gloved hand trails a finger down your neck. 

* * *

The next day, you wear the teal dress again, but you dress it down with brown leather leggings and an open front tunic. You’re starting to miss your bow. It’s like a piece of you is gone. You wonder if this is what Mandalorians mean by their weapons being an extension of themselves. 

You’re excited to bring the baby to the marketplace so he can play with some other children in the little playground in the center. You’d missed him terribly the day before, which surprised you. 

There were fewer things you wanted on the other side of the market, but Mando showed interest in all the metal scraps and various bits of machinery he could purchase for the Crest. 

“We can get this to fix your speeder,” he says, showing you some piece of metal, you don’t know, you’re not a mechanic.  
“What’s wrong with my speeder?” you ask.   
“Besides it being half falling apart?” he asks.  
“Your ship has an exposed electric panel and we fly it into space like it’s _not_ going to explode.”  
“Hm,” he grunts, ignoring your comment, “Still getting this for the speeder. It’ll make it run smoother.”

The two of you hadn’t talked about the night before. When you woke up in the middle of the night, he’d let your hand go and was sleeping with his arms folded. And he hadn’t said anything about it so you guess it would be left alone, for now. You also notice he’s not steering you with his hand on the small of your back anymore. You _know_ that you went too far and he was just being nice. Or that he’d pitied you after you told him about your parents.

It wasn’t the first time that you’d misjudged the closeness of your relationship with someone. You’d run off friends, lovers, even some family members as a child because of this habit. It’s why you’d stayed alone for most of the past five years. The truth was that you cared deeply, and it was easier to be alone than to realize that, yet again, your personality had run someone else off. Knowing that he wasn’t interested hurts you so badly that you can't breathe if you think about it for even a passing second. So you don’t.

You’re taking a break in the playground feeding the baby when it happens. You’d worn your matching necklace. You usually wouldn't have done so in a marketplace because you knew people were generally far too interested in precious stones, but the city seemed so safe. You let yourself relax, and you took off your Go Fuck Yourself face for once. 

It’s a mistake.

You see a male Rodian approaching you, which raises your hackles because of Peanut, but you plaster on your smile to ask him what he needs. Before you can process what's happening, he snatches the necklace off of your neck with a force so great that the leather string cuts into your skin and leaves a bloody line trailing down your chest. You yelp in pain and fear, and the baby starts crying. Mando is nowhere. 

“Wait,” you cry, “Please, give it back! Please!” 

Your hand clutches at nothing, grasping for the last bit of your mother you had, trying not to fall apart at the thought of her being completely gone. Peanut looks at you worriedly, reaching his chubby little hand out to the cut on your neck. You pick him up and cradle him, and push his little fist down before he hurts himself trying to fix you.

“Shh, sweet boy, no, it’s not so bad,” you lie.

You’re _furious_. Raging, angry, fire-breathing _furious_. You think that if you had your bow and weren’t holding an infant, you may have killed that man in the middle of the crowded market. And maybe even if you _were_ holding the baby. You know that you’re never going anywhere without your bow again. 

You’re having a hard time breathing and a loud sob comes out of you, and the baby starts wailing, he’s so distressed. You feel yourself starting to get overwhelmed and the horrible vulnerability that comes with it. 

Din Djarin hears a shriek from across the marketplace that sounds like his son. His head snaps up and he scans the crowd, spotting you and the child. Is that _blood_ on your neck? Din tears across the market, hunter instincts kicking in, preparing to grill you about what happened, but he stops abruptly when he gets to you. Your eyes are full of tears and your breathing is erratic again. 

Remembering what happened the last time you were in this state, Din puts his hands on your shoulders and sees you flinch at the contact. He pushes you down on the bench, squats down in front of you, and asks gently, “What happened?”

“My necklace--he took it. And you weren’t _here_ and I was afraid but you told me I was safe,” you blurt out, and Din feels his heart sink, it drops into his stomach, and he’s _going_ to fix this. 

“What did he look like?” Din asks, his visor scanning for anyone who looks suspicious.

“Rodian, I don’t--he had a white shirt on,” you say, and then Din is gone, through the crowd, down a street, tracking a strange and messy set of shoe prints. He feels rage and remorse bubbling inside him. He should have been there, and he let some _foolish_ sense of pride get in the way.

“Mando!” he hears you call behind him. Maker, you’re quicker than he thought.  
“Let me handle this,” he calls back to you.   
“Mando, it’s not a big deal, I was overreacting, please, let’s just---” 

He stops short and you almost barrel into him. He turns to you, looks you up and down, and says, “It’s a big deal. That stone is a big deal. And I will tear this fucking city apart to find it and give it back to you. You deserve to keep it,” he says. 

Your mouth opens to say something, but you see the Rodian out of the corner of your eye, and you point in his direction, “Mando!” The Rodian is fast, but the Mandalorian is faster. You scurry behind him trying to keep up, and when you round a corner you see that Mando has the Rodian slammed up against a wall, and he’s snarling at him, “Give me the necklace back or I will fucking kill you; I do not care about your life.”

“Mando--- _please_ , it’s just a necklace--” you plead, not wanting to disrupt the hard-earned peace of this place.

But the Rodian takes the necklace out of his pocket and throws it on the ground. “Here,” he says, “Give the bitch her pebble back, then.”

Mando drops the man, and then he punches him hard in his face, caving in the bridge between two large eyes. The man howls angrily, moving to fight, and Mando pulls his blaster out of his pocket in a flurry of movement. He puts it to the Rodian’s chin. 

“I meant it when I said I do not care about your life,” Mando spits; his voice is low and dangerous. You never see him in action and it’s an amazing thing to watch. 

The Rodian holds up his hands and backs away, and then runs in the opposite direction. Mando turns to you, gripping the stone in his hand.

“We need to get some bacta salve on that,” he says, lifting your hair out of the way and gingerly dabbing at the wound on your neck.  
“It’s just a cut,” you say, wincing a little. He drops the stone in your open hand and curls your fingers over it.   
“I would have killed him for this. Do you understand?” he asks you, head tilted down toward you. He pushes your closed hand up to your heart and covers it with his own. You think you’re _starting_ to understand.   
“I will _never_ leave you alone again. Ever,” he continues. 

He clears his throat. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go. He won’t stay quiet for long.” 

You don’t put up a fuss because you’re still trying to figure out what’s happening and if you’re just misreading the situation. You just wish you could _ask_ him. 

Back on the ship, things are lighter. Easier. Something shifted between the two of you in that alleyway. When you returned, Mando had insisted on treating your wound immediately. _You_ didn’t think you needed to use up any of the bacta supply on a small cut. Mando, however, is nothing if not stubborn, and when you went to the ‘fresher to retrieve the bacta salve from your supplies, you found him directly behind you. He’d snatched the tin from your hands and you were stunned when he removed his gloves. You tried to look anywhere but his exposed skin.

“You can look at my hands, kiddo,” he’d said, and you heard a smirk in his tone. “It’s my ugly mug I can’t show anyone.”

“Uh, okay,” you'd said, and you smiled nervously. 

“Lean your head back,” he'd ordered. And you obeyed. It was hard _not_ to look at his hands. They were large and tan, and his fingers had tiny scars from his numerous injuries. When he dipped two of those fingers into the tin and scooped the salve out, you blushed violently. The sensuality of the action made it hard to breathe. Worse still, a shuddering sigh escaped your lips before you could stop it when he brought his bare fingers to your neck and gently applied the salve. 

“I--it was stinging before,” you start, but then you stopped when you saw that he hadn’t moved his fingers, still rubbing the salve onto your skin. It was soft, caring, almost sensual. You could feel the slick gathering between your legs. All too quickly, it’s over. 

“There,” he whispered, “Shouldn’t even leave a scar.” 

“Th-thank you,” you’d said hoarsely. 

That interaction plays over and over in your head for hours while you unpack, while you feed Peanut, while you make your bed with your new blanket and pillows. The whole set up is so much more luxurious than you usually allow yourself and you're genuinely excited to sleep for once. 

“Looks nice,” Mando says, breaking you out of your thoughts. Maker, he is _quiet_. The blue stone is back in the middle of the shelf on prominent display. You beam at him and try to hide a big yawn.   
“You should sleep,” he says.  
“The baby--,” you protest.  
“--Needs to sleep, too. He’ll be right out here in his pram. I’ll listen for him. Please. Rest.”

You nod and smile sleepily up at the big man. “Okay, buckethead. Good night.”

“Hmm,” he says.

You climb into your bunk and seal the little door behind you, and you hear Mando turn the lights off in the hold. You’re finally able to relax. Or, you _should_ be able to relax. Instead, your mind is in Nevarro City, watching Mando pick a man up and slam him against the wall, and then you’re smelling him standing _so_ close to you, his hand touching yours, promising he’d never leave you again. His fingers entwined in yours, the way he crowded your space in the alley, the way his eyes lingered when you wore your new dress. He'd never leave you again? What did that mean? You bristle a little at the thought of needing _anyone_ to protect you, but you have to admit that it's nice to think someone might want to. That you might let him. 

It’s been ages since you touched yourself, and even longer since someone had. The baby was usually around, so you could never satisfy those needs. And something about Mando standing near you, saying he would have killed someone to retrieve something special to you. Because it was yours. It makes you moan just thinking about it, and you feel yourself _throb_. Maybe you were, as always, reading too much into it. Either way, you need this. 

Your hand travels to your neck, trailing the swath of skin to which Mando had applied the salve. His fingers were so _soft_ , which had surprised you, though you suppose it makes sense -- they’re always covered by leather gloves. You wonder if the rest of his skin is that smooth. You let yourself imagine that he hadn’t stopped. 

That, instead of pulling his hand away and putting the gloves back on, his naked fingers traveled further down to your chest, exploring your exposed skin, ripping that dress off you, cupping your bare breast, dragging his large thumb across your hard nipple. 

You move your hand lower, featherlight down your belly, moving swiftly to your dripping cunt. Sometimes you could draw this out, but not this time. The friction that had built between your legs since yesterday screamed for relief. You desperately try to keep silent, but you can’t. You’re so worked up, so wet, so achingly turned on---whimpers escape your throat and drift into the space above you. You clamp your hand over your mouth when you come, hips bucking into the air, hoping it muffles your murmurs of the only name you have for him, over and over again, “Mando, Mando, Mando.”

* * *

For once the ship is dark and quiet, and Din can take his helmet off. You’ve fallen asleep, the baby is asleep, and it’s just him. His senses are different without the helmet muffling them. Stale air hits his face, and he smells the remnants of your soap. 

You, you, _you_. 

Your fingers slipping through his own felt like home. He thought if he ignored it, if he chalked it up to exhaustion, or bad soup, or _something_ , he could keep himself as guarded as he always had been when it came to something like romantic love. He loved the Child, yes, and his clan. But he’d _never_ felt this. He doesn’t know if it’s love or not because he’s never been in love, but he imagines it must be something like it. 

He can listen to your nervous babbling for hours. He likes how you get shy when he looks at you for too long. He likes when you stand with your hands on your hips, daring him to say another word. He likes when your fingers twist the end of your braid when you’re thinking. 

And, _stars_ , he loves seeing you hold his son. 

Din finds himself creeping down the ladder of the cockpit, heart thumping wildly. He’s not sure what he’s doing. He thinks maybe you’ll still be awake and maybe you listen to him, maybe you’ll let him apologize for leaving you alone. 

But he hears something coming from your bunk. At first, he thinks you’re crying. He hears muted whimpers, gasps, sobs. He panics, thinking you’re hurt, and moves quickly to the door, but stops when he’s directly in front of it.

He feels his cock strain against the seam of his trousers. His mouth drops open when he realizes you’re moaning in pleasure. Din has very little experience with sex, unless you count experimenting as a teenager, and jacking off when he couldn’t take it anymore. Which he’d been doing a lot of recently. Thinking of you in your little tank tops. Practicing with your bow. 

He leans against the wall, listening to you, trying to ignore his growing erection. He should leave, he knows that, but the noises you’re making are so _pretty_ , so soft and desperate. He wants to break the door down and crawl into your bed and lay next to you. He wants to touch you and make you make those noises. He palms the bulge in his pants, keeping a groan inside. 

A louder moan comes from you, muffled, like you have something over your mouth. Then he hears something that almost makes him come right in his pants. “Mando, Mando, Mando,” you’re murmuring and something happens in his brain, something primal takes over, and before he knows what he’s doing, he hits the button to open the door, and he sees you sprawled out, legs spread, fingers pumping in and out of yourself. Your eyes fly open and you move to cover yourself, but he snatches the blanket before you can. Your eyes are mistrustful but still heavy with lust. 

He tilts his head down at you.

“My _name_ is Din.”


	4. the bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, your secret crush isn't super secret anymore, is it? And neither is his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com/
> 
> Y'all, I had a hell of a time writing this, and I really, really hope it's good. It's a also very dialogue heavy toward the end because of reasons. This is honestly the most fun I've had doing anything in a long time, so I just wanted to thank y'all for reading. Reader got a lot more OC-y than I'd planned, but I hope y'all love her like I do anyway. 
> 
> Get ready for some spicy spice babiessss.

You _should_ be mad. You should be _pissed_. Who the hell does this man think he _is_ ? Opening the door to your bunk? Your private space? Your fingers are still inside of yourself, you’re still shaking slightly from your orgasm, his _name_ is still dripping down your tongue. 

But you’re stuck on this scene in front of you. Is this a dream? Mando—Din?—is holding on to each side of the doorway, leaning into your bunk, arms spread wide. _Maker_ , his arms are long. The only armor he’s wearing is his helmet. His body is still covered, but he’s in a long sleeve under shirt and trousers that do nothing to hide his arousal. 

“I-what? What are you doing?” you ask. Your brain is still foggy. You pull your fingers out of yourself and tug on the blanket again, trying to cover yourself. You’re panicked a little, wondering if he’s hurt, if he’s sleepwalking? Maker, you can’t see his damn _face_. 

There’s a tickle in the back of your mind, though. You _like_ him seeing you like that. 

“Please,” he whispers, “Can I come in?” 

“Din,” you whisper back, “Is this something you want to do? Are you sure?”

You almost hate to ask. If you’re honest with yourself you’ve wanted this for months, but you need to make sure that this won’t be something he regrets. You can’t be his mistake, not when you know what that could cost you.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” he says. His confession makes you gulp, and you push the blanket off of you, inviting him in. He crawls in, slowly closing the gap between you, and you see that he’s shaking. He’s nervous. This big bounty hunting Mandalorian is shaking because of _you_. 

Din is wondering exactly what he should do next. He’s never done this. He doesn’t want _you_ to know he’s never done this, but deep down he has a feeling you’re already aware. He tries to control the shaking of his hands, but it’s no use. 

You are… there is no way for him to describe you. He’s bad at words, and none of them can do you justice anyway. You look like a goddess, a queen. He slips between your open legs and rests his forearms on your knees, trying to quiet the trembling in his limbs.

If it were anyone else in the galaxy, you might reach up to him and bring his lips to yours, but the helmet makes things a little tricky. Instead you pull his head down and press your forehead to his, and it’s more intimate that you thought it would be. He sighs. 

“Can I—can I take your clothes off?” he asks, motioning to your tunic, which is half way up your belly. You nod. You can’t believe you haven’t yanked it back down to cover yourself up, but he makes you feel safe and desired. His movements are gentle and thoughtful as he tugs the shirt over your head. You can see his hands again. 

He explores the expanse of your top half, hands still shaking. You grab them and hold them to your bare chest. 

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, “You’re doing so well.” 

He shudders at the praise. Din doesn’t know where to start. He wants to see everything. He wants to touch everything. He wants to make you _feel_ everything. 

_You_ have other plans. You remember your first time and it was so much more pleasant than most of the stories you’d heard. She was an older girl, more experienced, and took her time showing you the things your body could do. The way it could make you feel.

“Din,” you say. You can’t stop saying his name. You want to say it again, again, _again_. It’s so soft and sweet on your tongue, makes your mouth feel full of honey. “Din, let me do this for you. Let me show you.”

He’s so close that you hear his intake of breath under the helmet. 

“Okay,” he says, “Okay. But can I—can I watch you? Just for a minute. I… want to see you. Please?”

The way he begged for you was so not what you’d expected. You thought he’d be harder, quieter. Meaner, somehow. And you would have been absolutely into it. But this is good, too. 

“Of course,” you say. You push him back until he’s kneeling in front of you and spread your legs a little wider than you usually would were you alone. Tentatively, he wraps both of his hands around your ankles. You smile a little to yourself. He just wants to touch you _anywhere_. 

You think about giving him a show, but that feels wrong. So you go about your usual routine, but slower. You take your time rubbing circles over your clit, dragging your fingers over your slit, pushing them in and out of yourself, moaning just a little louder than you normally do. 

His breathing is ragged and every time you let out a low moan or gasp or whimper you hear it hitch. You wish you could see his face. You’ve never done this in front of someone else and his reactions make it so much _better_. He digs into your ankles with his fingers and gently rubs his hands up and down your legs.

Din is so _fucking_ hard. He’s never been this turned on in his life. It’s the closeness, the feel of your skin, your dripping wet cunt in front of him. He wonders how it tastes. He’s seen holos where people put their tongues there, and he wonders if you would let him do that. You start making little noises and you tense up, suddenly, and he thinks you’re coming, you must be. He digs his fingers into your legs, trying to keep himself upright. He’s going to pass out, he thinks, watching you clench around your fingers, and he hears you, “Din Din Din Din DIN!”

“Fuck,” he breathes. You’re _pulsating_ around your own fingers. It’s unbelievable. 

Your breathing slows down and you look up at him. You’re grinning a little, the way you do when you’re teasing him. You’re so naked. He wants to feel all of you. And then, you take your fingers out of yourself and bring them to your lips, and you suck your juices off of them.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says again. You sit up to meet him, your face is inches from his helmet. He’s never seen you like this, and he doesn’t ever want it to end. You look so fucking beautiful.   
“What do you want, Din?”   
“I-I-you. I want you. I don’t—I can't ignore it anymore,” he says. 

“But what do you want from me?” you ask. You know he doesn’t know what to say, but you always _have_ liked teasing him.  
“Everything,” he says.   
“That’s a lot,” you tease. You hear him make a light noise of frustration, which is _so_ cute.  
“Can I take _your_ shirt off?,” you ask, lightly, trying to convey that it’s okay if he won’t let you. You shouldn’t have worried because he moves his arms out of the way quickly. 

You pull his shirt up slowly, and—look, you _knew_ he was going to be beautiful. You just knew that. You were unprepared for just how right you were. His torso is littered with scars, and you want to map them all with your fingers. You want to know where every single one came from. When you touch him, he flinches and you pull your hand away quickly, trying to decide if you’re hurt or concerned. Maybe it’s both. 

“No, I—I’m sorry,” Din says, reaching out for your hand, “Please don’t stop, please don’t be upset,” he says, “I’m just not used to anyone touching me. And I’m, um, I’m a little ticklish.”  
“ _Ticklish_?” you ask, truly amused at this big Mandalorian admits that some light touches can bring him to his knees. He chuckles.  
“Din,” you start again, “We really don’t have to do this. I know this is new and you’re not—”  
“You’re not talking me out of this, and with all due respect, can you shut up for once?”

You purse your lips, then soften them into a smile. 

“I’ll try to make this painless,” you tease gently. This time, your touch is firmer. You start at his shoulders, moving your hands down his arms, exploring every exposed bit of him. He is smooth and warm and tan, and there is a slight roundness to his stomach, which drives you wild. Experimentally, you lean into his neck and place your lips on his skin and he _gasps_. 

“Do you like that?” you ask him. 

“Yes,” he says, his breathing ragged. Your teeth drag along his neck, his chest, down his torso. Your lips reach the waistband of his trousers and look up, questioning. He nods. You tug both sides of his pants down and your breath hitches when his cock appears, rigid and hard, his head peeking from his foreskin, leaking precome. It takes all of your self-restraint to resist from devouring him whole. 

“Please,” he pleads, and that restraint shatters. The first time you touch him, his hips buck into the air and grips the sheets like he’ll float away if he doesn’t. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and his voice is small and pleading, “Fuck.”

“We’ll get to that,” you murmur, and you _need_ to taste him. You lower your mouth onto his cock and he tastes like salt and soap. Your soap. Does he use your soap? He lets out a filthy noise and you feel yourself dripping again. 

Din is beside himself. He doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t know what to do other than breathe and sigh and he wants to speak. He wants to tell you things, everything. He wants to be inside of you. He wants to put his hands in your hair and pull. He wants to see his come all over you. 

You squeeze the base of his cock with your mouth on him and he shivers. It feels so fucking good, he didn’t know it would feel so good. It wasn’t like his hand. His hand was hard and fast and desperate. You are soft and slow, deliberate, sweet. Your mouth is warm and wet and he wonders how your cunt feels, could it feel better? How?

“F-feels so good. You feel so good. I w-wanted this for so—long—” he moans, “You’re so fucking pretty, so soft, you’re so _good_ to me. Wanted to take you in th-that room. Wanted to fuck you in that dress. W-wanted to go into that shower with you.”

You keep bobbing your head up and down, quietly, humming in approval to his words. You love hearing him talk, like you’re opening him up with your mouth. He’s so quiet, so guarded, so reserved. He deserved to relax and feel safe. 

_You_ make him feel safe.

You pull your mouth off of him and your eyes are wide, looking for his consent. “I’m going to get on top of you now, okay?” 

Din nods enthusiastically, and then, “Um—you have an implant, right?” 

Look at this man, you think. Naked and leaking precome with a woman ready to ride him like a bantha and he’s worried about your implant. 

“Yes,” you say, “So please, don’t hold back when you’re ready.”

You lower yourself onto him and it’s been _so_ long since you’ve been on top of someone, _so_ long since you’ve been filled up, you find yourself shaking some. Din, of course, never misses a thing, and he steadies you by putting his hands on your thighs. He’s not huge, but he’s thick and it’s a lot more to take than your two fingers. 

You gasp and he _groans_ and the sounds mingling together turn you on so much. He whispers your name, and you think you’ll lose your mind. You move back and forth, back and forth, up and down, up and down, hips doing circles to grind down onto him—his sighs and noises and words are the most wonderful things you’ve ever heard

“Din, Din—” you can’t stop saying his name, and his fingers dig into your thighs, harder and harder, they _hurt_ but they feel so good. He thrusts up into you and you make a noise like a scream and clap your hands over your mouth to keep from waking up the baby, but he reaches up and yanks your hands down.

“No, I want to hear you,” he snarls. He’s gone into a different mode. It’s rough and hot and hard and you’re stunned at his assertive shift. You’re not mad about it, though. Then, he sticks two fingers into your mouth, and curls them around your lower lip, like he’s trying to keep your mouth open. 

You grind harder and harder and you feel his hips stuttering up into you. 

“Yes, yes, there—come on, Din, baby, please, come for me, come in me,” you babble. _Baby_? Maker, he’s made you delirious. 

“I-I—” he comes to a halt, hips raised into your own, leans up and wraps his arms around your neck, puts his helmet against your forehead, and he comes. You feel him finish inside of you and it’s so _warm_ and there’s _so_ much of it. 

This is the part that scares you, just a little. You know that sometimes, men come and their head is cleared from their lust, and they leave and you have to pretend that nothing happened so you can be around each other. You don’t understand this dynamic, you’ve never understood this dynamic, but you know how to pretend, and you’re gearing up for it just in case.

You don’t think Mando— _Din_ —is like that, but when he takes his fingers out of your mouth, you lean back tentatively, wondering if it’s all over. His breathing calms and he tilts his head at you, rubbing circles on your thighs with his hands, soothing the red circles left by his fingertips. You’ll have bruises for sure, but that’s okay.

“That was—that was amazing. You feel so fucking good, I—wait. Did you—wait, did _you_ come?” he asks, concern apparent even through the vocoder, sitting up on his elbows. He’s still inside of you and it’s nice. The two of you sitting there, connected. Like a couple. You push that thought deep down.   
“I—uh, no, I don’t usually come from just…intercourse,” you say, letting a nervous giggle slip. You can almost feel him frowning.  
“Wh—how? I thought—”   
“Some people with vaginas do. I don’t, usually,” you shrug. You had, once, a long time ago, but it had taken a lot of time and a lot of effort. You think back on it with starry eyes sometimes, still. 

Din wants to do _that_ again and again. He wants to do it in different positions, all over the ship, outside of the ship. He wants to be in you forever. But he also wants you to be satisfied, too. 

“How?” he asks. Now you feel a little shy. You hadn’t planned on worrying about yourself much, since you’d gotten yourself off twice on your own. And you knew he probably couldn’t give you what worked.  
“Well… um, I can do it myself with my fingers, like you… saw, or…”  
“What?” he asks.   
“Oral. Like if you—”  
“I know what it is,” he says.  
“Yeah, so,” you say and shrug. You knew he wasn’t taking his helmet off for some tryst, and you’d known that the second he crawled into your bunk. He smacks your hip lightly, signaling for you to get up. You do, and whimper a little at the loss of sensation. 

Then he gets up and walks off, and you’re naked and leaking him onto your new sheets. For a moment, you’re glad you braced yourself for the earlier scenario. You really had thought that after the marketplace and after… this… you would at least get a good night. 

You ignore the sting of tears at the corner of your eyes and start to crawl to the door so you can clean yourself up in the ‘fresher, but the lights suddenly go off. All the lights. He’s put the ship into reserve power, and the hull is pitch dark. There’s not even the smallest light source and you can’t see _anything_. 

What is he doing?

You hear a hiss of pressure being released and a thud as something is set on the floor. You feel the mattress dip again. 

“Lay back,” he says, but his voice is just… normal. There’s no crackle of the vocoder, no artificial monotone. It’s deep and pleasant and _real_. You want to hear him talk forever. 

“Will you let me… can I taste you?” he asks, and the way he asks is so unsure and sweet and, yeah, you were gonna let him do anything he damn well pleased to you, but he’s such a fucking _sweetheart_ about it.  
“Yes… of course,” you say.  
“Will you tell me if I’m doing it wrong?”

You giggle. 

“Yes,” you promise.

He moves to you slowly, and you think he’ll move directly there, which would be perfectly fine, but he doesn’t. He moves over your torso and up to your face. You can’t see a damn thing, but you can _feel_ him, his nervous breathing, his nose rubbing your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and you think you’ll die there, your heart will seize up, your soul will float out of your body, and it will be fine because _Din_ is asking to kiss you on the mouth.

“Yes,” you say. His lips are clumsy, untested, but soft. You correct some of his movements, gently, and he follows your lead. You slip your tongue between his lips, and swipe it into his mouth and he sighs into yours. 

He trails kisses down your neck and he takes one of your breasts into his mouth. Stars, his mouth is _soft_.

Down, down, down.

His tongue moves around experimentally, and he _inhales_ you. You feel yourself throb at his intake of breath and you buck your hips up. He chuckles. 

“You smell good,” he says, “And you taste even better.”

You whine a little at his words. You love him talking, and you love hearing his unmodulated voice even more. His mouth is clumsy, like that kiss, but eager. He moves inside of your lips, and finds your clit and you moan. It’s still tender from earlier, but it feels _so_ good. 

He takes your instructions well. More so than any other man you’d been with. You wonder if he’s just naturally gifted, or if it’s just because you’re so worked up. You decide it’s a little of both. 

“P-put your fingers in me, move them b-back and forth—oh, gods, yes, like that,” you tell him, and he does, in and out in and out in and out, and you feel yourself tensing up. 

“Din, I—faster,” you moan. Two thick fingers move quickly, bluntly, you’re ready, you need to—

And you come and come and come, drifting off into the stars, black and white spots in your eyes, whispering his name. His face is buried in your cunt and he works you through it, sweetly, softly, and waits for you to come back.

When you’ve regained your senses, he’s crawled up next to you. 

“Welcome back,” he says, and you can hear a smile on his face.  
“You feel so good,” you say. Din doesn’t respond, but he does wrap his naked body around your own. His hair is sweaty and you run your fingers through it, thanking the stars you can feel him like this, even if you can’t see his face.   
“ _You_ feel so good. You’re so soft and pretty,” he says. He nuzzles—nuzzles!—you like a loth cat. You didn’t take him for a cuddler, but you certainly are not complaining. 

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” he whispers into your neck.   
“Hm?” you answer, still hazy. You roll over so you’re facing him. He fits into your arms like a missing puzzle piece.   
“It’s Mando’a… it means beautiful,” he murmurs. You’re quiet for a bit, basking in the moment.  
“How much Mando’a do you know?” you ask.   
“Bits and pieces. Not many of us speak it, really. Most of us are foundlings and by the time we get picked up it’s hard to become fluent. But there are phrases that I have memorized.”  
“Like what?”  
“Well, uh,” he’s starting to get shy. You grab his hand and bring it to your lips.  
“You don’t have to share if you don’t want to,” you say.  
“I _want_ to. You make me want to… tell you things. Um, one that I like is ‘ _Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la.’_ Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you'll be. And the marriage vows,” he admits sheepishly. You press your forehead against his.   
“Really? What are they?” you ask. You are always curious to learn about Mandalorians.  
“ _Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde_. We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors.”

A shiver runs up your spine, and you don’t think it has to with the lack of blankets on you. 

“So you think I’m beautiful?” you ask.  
“Obviously, kiddo.”  
You wrinkle your nose up a little at the nickname.  
“Why do you call me kiddo?”  
“Well, you’re… younger? Than me, at least. Is it not… good?” he sounds so insecure you almost consider taking it back.   
“I mean, it’s fine, but considering we just had sex, it may be a little… weird.”

He stops and thinks about it, and you feel the comprehension. He thinks so loudly. 

“Oh. Yeah, it’s probably not so great now.”  
“Mm. How old _are_ you anyway?”  
“Not sure, exactly,” he says, “probably around 40 now. How, uh, how old are you?”  
“Twenty-eight,” you say promptly.   
“Oh,” he says.  
“Mmhmm.” 

The talking is so nice. The sex was nice, of course, but this is better. No small talk, no nervous chatter. Just the two of you learning about each other. His walls are finally down, scattered around the hold with his beskar, letting you climb into him. Finally. You dread the moment they go back up. You lean into his face and push your lips against his, holding them there. You just want to savor this moment because you don’t know what the next day is going to bring. 

“ _Dralshy’a_ ,” he sighs onto your lips.   
“What does that mean?” you ask.  
“Stronger. Brighter. It fits you.” 

He can’t see you blush in the dark.

“Am I supposed to be so exhausted after?” he asks, slurring his words a little.  
“Shh,” you say, “Sleep.” And he does, tangled in your warmth, face buried in your neck. His heavy breathing lulls you into your own dreams and for once, they’re quiet.

* * *

When you wake up it’s because you hear a cry. Your eyes fly open—the baby! 

“Shit!” you mutter, sitting straight up. You go to open the hatch to your room, but you remember Din, and you look over to where you think his sleeping body is. 

“Din,” you say, gently shaking him awake, “I have to go get the baby. You need to put your helmet back on.”

Din stirs and reaches his hand up to your face. 

“Okay,” he says, voice raspy with sleep, and you turn around so he can turn on the lights and find his clothes. He slips on trousers and helmet, and for some reason, you’re shyer about looking at him than you were before. 

You set off to grab Peanut from his pram and feed him. He’s gurgling unhappily, but once you find his ball and some rations to give to him, he’s soon back to his cheerful self. You’re avoiding Din a little because you’re not sure what’s going to happen next.

You’re bad at relationship games. You are a straightforward, to-the-point type of person. You find no benefit in hiding your true feelings on a matter, especially when they’ve already been made known. You think Din might be the same, but you can’t know for sure. Your whole life has been spent navigating these social games, and they’re exhausting. 

So you stall. You clean up the hull, you take a shower, and you play peek-a-boo with Peanut. Peanut seems to have sensed the shift. He’s sweeter than usual, trying not to make a fuss about anything, and you don’t like that for him. You don’t like children behaving unnaturally to please their—parents? No. Parent. Parent and nanny/bodyguard. Though you love him like he’s yours. 

_It’s okay. It will be okay, Mama._

This comes out of nowhere. It’s not your thought. It’s not really a _thought_. It feels like something is pushing their _own_ thoughts into your head—translated, from a different language. 

You look down at the little goblin in front of you, whose eyes are wide and a soft smile is on his little mouth.

“How did you—” you start, but Din comes in and you recognize his body language as determined. But no armor. Interesting. He picks the baby up and holds him in the crook of his arm and he is—god, it’s just so sexy. Big man, little baby. 

“We should talk,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck, like he’s unsure. Your impulse is to tease him, but you think this could be serious, so you bite back the joke. The child looks back and forth between the two of you, curiously.

“Okay,” you say, “Is everything… okay?” 

“It’s fine,” he says. A pause. “Look, about last night—”

You rush to head this off. If you do it yourself it hurts less.

“Din, it’s okay, you don’t need to make a big speech. We had sex and it was wonderful but you don’t have to make a thing out of it if you don’t want to,” you lie, looking anywhere but the T of his visor. He tilts his head down at you and takes a step forward, and then another, and then he puts his hand under your chin and tilts it upward so you’re looking up at him. You notice his hand is still bare. Your heart is beating _so_ fast.

“ _Dralshy’a_ —I’d like to make it, what, a thing, you said? I want to make it a big thing. Will you let me do that?” he asks.

You nod fervently and you break into a wide smile, genuine this time, your guard crashing down around you. 

He leans his helmet down to your forehead, and at the same time, there is a sudden crash, a BOOM, and the lights go out again. You’re forced apart and you _fly_ across the hull, landing on your back. You hear the baby wailing. Another boom. 

Something— _someone_ —is attacking the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting more intense in the story, so I'm trying to get the chapters written and updated like once a week. Idk how well that'll work. I have 8 chapters planned, and I also have a full time job and a husband and and am easily overwhelmed sooo.


	5. the hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your past finally catches up with you, and it threatens to to blow apart everything you have. And if that doesn't, the trauma that you keep inside you might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com
> 
> This wasn't supposed to be spicy, or angsty, but we got both. Really don't know if I like this chapter as much I want to, but I hope y'all do anyway! :)
> 
> Also, I made a playlist because I'm obsessed with these two, so if you're interested in my garbage taste, et voila:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ag0LJYGAkWq066XpBxhHa

You sit up, pain shooting up your hip—what the fuck was _that_? You shake your head, clearing the confusion and shock, and you snap into survival mode. 

Peanut? He’s up, rolling around like a little green log and screaming, but he’s unharmed.

Din? Din is a different issue. Despite having his helmet on, he’s knocked out cold. You check his pulse and the rise and fall of his chest. What the hell is the point of that bucket he wears, then? To make _your_ life more difficult? You curse the Creed and feel zero remorse.

The ship is still shaking, and you hear a _thud_ on the roof. This is when you remember that broken access panel on the top of the ship, the one you’d been telling Din to fix for weeks. The ship pressurizes the escape pod room separately, so you’re not concerned about that, but you _are_ concerned about the unconscious man and the tiny baby you need to _hide_ before whoever is out there finds it and slips in. 

How _many_ are out there, for that matter? Maker _fucking_ save you. The only windows in this ship are in the cockpit. You don’t have time to run up there and look. The booms and shaking stop, and you take advantage of the sudden peace to figure out how to drag the two of them into your bunk and stow them. Peanut isn’t a problem, obviously. He weighs nothing, and he seems to understand the gravity of the situation because the wailing has stopped, replaced by tiny coos of concern.

“Ebba,” he says, pointing to Din. 

“I know, bud. Okay, look, we gotta get Papa in the bunk, and then I have to shut you both in there and then you have to be _quiet_ ,” you explain, hoping against hope the kid can figure out what you’re saying.

“Bllrghgh,” he says.

Well, _obviously_.

You move quickly, snatching your bow off of its hanger in the weapons cabinet and slinging it on your back. There is stuff _everywhere_ , and it’s almost impossible not to go flying off again as you try not to trip over cups and tools and who the hell knows what else. 

Lifting Din is a feat. He’s tall, broad, and mostly muscle. You hook both of your arms around his chest and pull him as quietly as you can to the bunk—you can hear them getting closer to that hatch. 

“Maker, Din, get it together, we just started something, and this—is— _not_ —the—end—of—it,” you hiss at him, panting against his dead weight. While you’re clamoring up the mattress and pulling him in, he stirs, and great—he’s going to argue and want to fight, but you know that’s just not an option right now.

“What’s happening? Where’s the kid?” he asks, confused.

“Listen to me,” you say, “someone is attacking the ship and they’re trying to board. It knocked you unconscious. You cannot, under any circumstances, help me with this. You need to stay in here with Peanut—”

“The hell I can’t!” he argues and tries to get up and—for fuck’s _sake_ , why is he like this?   
“You’d let me fight if I’d got knocked unconscious and was half-naked?”   
“Of course not but—”  
“Din, for once, just _listen_ to what I am saying to you; they’re almost in here. Shut the fuck up and stay hidden.”

Din stands—because why would he listen to you?--but he sits back down, shaking his head. 

“Be careful,” he whispers, and you nod, sealing them in. 

The hull is quiet, and you hear the intruder drop into the escape pod room. Taking advantage of the chaos of the room and the low light, you sneak behind a pile of crates and wait. You hear laughing and two distinct sets of voices. 

Fuck _everything_ , there’s two of them? But they’re on your turf, so you make a plan. You can take one out easy with your bow, but the second one might move too quickly for the second pulse to work. You also want to avoid blowing a hole in this poor little ship. 

The two hunters make their way into the hull, clomping noisily.

“‘Ere now, we know you’re in here, girl,” one of them sneers. 

“Yeah! We know you’re in here!” the other echoes in a sad imitation of intimidation. 

They’re after _you_? How did they know you were on this ship? Why? Who put a bounty on your head?

You have no time to think about it now, you just know you need to get these two incapacitated. They’re walking around Din’s ship, picking things up, touching the baby’s pram, trying to crack it open like an egg. Your rage is building and you’re fighting to keep calm. They’re getting far too close to the bunk. You hope against hope that Din is conscious and holding his blaster up to the door in case they find the button that opens it. 

Deciding that you should draw them both away, you tiptoe out of your hiding place with your bow drawn.

“I’d step away from there if I were you,” you say, calmly. 

“There she is!” the first man says, “Let’s not make this a big deal, love. Just come with us and we won’t have to look for that Mandalorian or his little green friend.” 

_Fuckfuckfuck_. 

“What’s a Mandalorian?,” you ask, hoping you sound more confident than you feel. 

“That act won’t work,” the leader says. He trains his blaster on you.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” you say, “We can all walk away from here alive. Doesn’t need to be like this.” 

The ship emergency lights are giving off an eerie glow, and it’s hard to see anything in the low light. If you can just get them a little closer, you can take them both out. You move back a little, trying to lure them to you. It works. They step forward.

“I don’t think so, love,” the human says, “Your puck’s got a 40,000 credit reward—thirty if we bring you in cold. I’m not going to turn down thirty.” 

“That’s disappointing,” you say, and take another step back. This time, it’s enough. “But I need a little target practice.”

You take a deep breath and pull your bowstring. The charge goes off, striking the leader in the chest, and he drops to the ground. The smaller man pulls his blaster out with a shaking hand, but you’re not worried about him. With another pull, you knock the blaster out of his hand. 

There’s fear in his eyes as he surrenders with both hands up, backing away from your fierce glare. But then he trips on the junk on the floor and flies backward. He lands with a hard thud. 

“Stay down,” you say sharply, advancing on him with your bow. The door to the bunk flies open and Din _barrels_ out, tackling the man on the ground. He slams the man’s face into the cold steel floor and drags his unconscious body next to his friend’s. You don’t think the friend is just unconscious, though, and you confirm your suspicions when you check the man’s wrist for a pulse. 

Well, that takes care of _that_. 

Din turns to you and cups your face in his hands, checking for signs of injury.

“Are you okay?” he asks.   
“I’m fine. How’s the head?” you ask.   
“I’ll live,” he says.   
“Oooooo,” the baby whines, and you rush to pick him up and cradle him.

“Oh, you were so brave, are you hurt? I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, this was my fault,” you say, feeling such horrible guilt for bringing those men aboard. You put him in his pram after kissing the top of his head and tuck him in. Instead of going to sleep, he watches you with interest.

You turn to Din to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but his attention is on the bounty puck, studying it intently. An intimidating holo of yourself spins around with a promise of 40,000 credits. 

Forty _thousand_ credits. Din stares at it, reading your full name, what you’re wanted for (murder), your danger level (armed, skilled, dangerous), and your reward. 

You freeze and wonder if you’re going to end up in carbonite. If the last few months have been a delusion and you’re just one of his quarries.

What’s it like in there? Will you be conscious? Can you feel? Does it hurt? Is it hard to breathe? Will you fight? 

He takes a sudden step forward; by instinct, you step back and draw your bow in one fluid motion, aiming it at his bare throat. 

“Don’t,” you warn.

His shoulders slump. Like you just confirmed something. Din throws the puck on the ground and smashes it under his boot. 

“It’s me,” he says quietly, stepping an inch away from the glowing charge. He sets a hand on your shoulder. “It’s me.” 

_Shhh, Mama, shhh._

You process that feeling again—someone’s putting their thoughts into your brain. You look around for the source. The baby's big eyes look back at you. You realize what you’re doing. You drop the bow like it’s burned you.

“No—I don’t know why— _Maker_ , I’m sorry,” you say, horrified at your actions. Your eyes are wide and blinking, trying to figure out what’s happened. Din picks up the bow and sets it gently on the weapons rack.

“I thought you’d turn me in. I thought you’d put me in carbonite. I thought this was all fake, and you were just capturing me, and I was dreaming,” you confess. Your voice is steady, but your body shakes.

“Why would I do that?” he asks softly. You don’t have a suitable answer for this. Din wraps his long arms around you and you say nothing. You can only stand there and cling to him. 

“Go take a shower. Clear your head,” he says. You want to argue, to say you’ll help, but maybe you need to take a moment alone, so you do as he says.

Din watches you limp away and thinks about your earlier reaction while he shoves the two hunters into carbonite. He thinks about the rage and warning in your face when he’d stepped toward you. He knows you well enough to know you’ll never forgive yourself for it.

He knows in your position he would have done the same thing.

You look into the mirror of the tiny ‘fresher and search your face for something. The fury you felt at the hunters. The satisfaction that came from ending one of them and knocking the other unconscious. You’d felt pleasure from killing only once before, when you hunted down the raiders who murdered your parents while they tried to flee through the same forest your mother used to find pebbles in the grass for you. 

You didn’t want to fail your family again. Those men had come into your home.

And yet, it was _you_ that pulled a weapon on Din. 

He’d never trust you again, you think miserably. It was instinct, it really was. It would not have been the first time someone turned on you after you thought they were someone you could stay with. Someone you could trust. 

He’d shared everything with you, and you’d held a laser to his throat. Fuck. 

The lights in the ‘fresher go off just after you’ve stepped under the warm water. Your heart beat picks up. The door slides open and Din says, “Dralshy’a,” and his voice sounds broken. Guilt blooms inside of your chest.

“Din?” you ask, “Are you okay?”  
“Can I join you?”   
“Yes, of course,” you say. You’re surprised. You thought he’d ignore you for a day or two and then drop you off at the nearest planet.

He’s silent, but you feel him moving around in the dark. 

“How can you move around? I can’t see a thing,” you ask.  
“Good night vision,” he says.  
“That makes one of us, I guess.”  
“Let me help you,” he says, and his voice is low and gentle, like he’s trying to keep you calm, like you're a bomb about to go off. You can't blame him.  
“Okay.”

Din grabs your soap and washes your body. He’s gentle and thorough, and he takes particular care around your injured hip. You haven’t even told him it hurts yet. He must have just noticed your limp. He leaves kisses on your skin. You want to cry because no one has _ever_ been so tender with you. 

“Where’s the baby?” you whisper.   
“He’s asleep.”   
“And...the men?”   
“Carbonite,” he says, rubbing between your fingers with soap.  
“Their ship?”  
“I called it in as abandoned. We’ll be long gone before they get here.”

His voice falters, just a little, but he stays silent. 

“You’re not mad at me?” you ask timidly.   
“No," he says, "I'm not."  
“Why—”  
“Because I understand.”  
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I understand if you want me to leave, but I would never—never… Maker, I just, I can’t be your mistake, Din.”  
“You’re no one’s mistake and you’re not going anywhere,” he says firmly.

You let him hold you there in the dark. 

“Do you have a family name?” you ask. The silence is so heavy. His eyes have adjusted some and he can see the shadows of your face in the dark. 

“Djarin,” he says. 

Din knows he would answer any question you ask him. You could dig deep into his past, every painful moment he ever had, and he would tell you. He wouldn’t give it a second thought. He wants you to know you can trust him. He’s stripped himself bare to worship you in this dark room, hoping to prove himself to you. He can’t show you his face, but he will give you everything else.   
  
He doesn’t know how to tell you any of his thoughts, so he washes your sore body instead. At least he can take care of you like this. He can dry you off, and put a bacta patch on your hip, wrap you in a blanket to keep you warm. He can lie down next to you and cocoon you up in himself to keep you safe. 

That has to be enough, for now.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, things start to shift between the two of you. Din is still Din, of course; he’s still brooding and quiet, but he finds reasons to touch you. If you’re leaning over, he comes behind you, places a hand on your hip, and peers over your shoulder to see what you’re doing. He wipes oil off your face with his thumb. He interlaces your fingers with his own absent-mindedly in the cockpit. 

It makes your heart flutter every time. 

The two of you have not repeated the events of that first night, but there have been a lot of times where he climbs into your bunk with his helmet and armor off. He kisses you until both of you fall asleep. You haven’t just made out with someone since you were a teenager. 

Sometimes you go to sleep without him and wake up with him curled around you, breathing softly onto your bare skin. Like he's making up for lost time.

Planet to planet to planet. Job to job to job. It’s all pretty normal, but now when he leaves, he presses his forehead to the baby’s and to yours. He lingers a little longer every time. It’s getting harder for him to leave you. 

There have been no more incidents, but you’ve decided to lay low for a while. You stay in the ship instead of wandering new villages and towns, and make sure your and Peanut’s faces are well-hidden when doing so. It’s boring, but it’s safe. 

You will _not_ fail them.

This most recent planet is green and beautiful and you long to go outside for more than a minute or two, but you settle for sitting in the cockpit and looking out the window. 

Your current personal mission is to figure out how this baby is pushing his thoughts into your mind. And why he calls you Mama, but that can wait. You know he has little magic baby powers, but that’s about it. You’ve never seen another of his kind before, and you don’t even know the name of his species. 

So you try to talk back to him. 

You start by sitting down in front of him and staring at him, willing your thoughts his way. 

_Pick up your toys.  
_ Silence.  
 _There’s not even that many!  
_ Silence.  
 _Where are you from?  
_ Silence.  
 _What’s your name?_

The baby gurgles, but you know it’s because he’s hungry. 

“All right, you little brat. Keep your secrets,” you say to him, tapping your finger to his tiny nose.

You do this for weeks. Once, in the seconds after you trip over something and are positive you’ve broken your leg, you feel a tendril of something at the edge of your mind, but it pulls away when you stand up and walk.

You haven’t told Din about it yet. You don’t want to sound like you’ve completely lost it. You need to be sure, but keeping it from him feels like a lie, and you hate that. 

Din is gone for longer than usual this time. Nowhere near three weeks, but it’s been almost a week and a half. He comms you every night now. This does nothing to ease the anxiety that roils in your stomach every time he leaves now. Your sleep has never been worse, and you desperately need some one-on-one time with your bow. Miming the action isn’t nearly as helpful as actual practice.

You think about him all the time now. You think about his lips and his tongue and his fingers, the way he can and will pick you up and move you when you’re in his way, the way he checks in on you. 

On the tenth night he comes back, and his energy is _off_. He only grunts when you greet him at the open hatch and doesn’t ask to see the baby. You feel anger and aggression flowing off of him in waves. You don’t know what’s happened, if it’s even directed at you, but you prepare yourself for a fight. 

He removes his weapons, and his breathing is shallow.

“Are you hurt?” you ask. 

He turns around to look you up and down. The way his head moves from your lips to your breasts to your hips, all the way to your bare feet, is positively lecherous. 

“What is it, buckethead?” you ask after the silence continues, trying to lighten the mood.

“Where’s the kid?” he asks. You recognize this voice. It makes you shiver. He walks closer to you, backing you against a wall. Your heart is pounding. 

“Cockpit. Sleeping,” you say.

He nods. 

“Where’s the quarry?” you whisper. He ignores the question and places a gloved hand on your hip.  
“You said you would make it painless last time, remember?” he says, quietly gauging your reaction.   
“I do.”  
“What if _I_ want to make it hurt this time?” he asks you, running his gloved fingers up your torso up to your mouth, opening your lips with his thumb. “Would it be okay?”

You have no fucking idea where _this_ guy came from, but you’re not about to turn him away. He asks so gently, so matter-of-factly, like he’s just asked you what the kid ate for dinner, or if you’ve gotten any sleep.

“I think...I think it would be okay,” you say, and your voice is strong despite the trembling in your legs and throbbing between them. You feel your cunt aching, waiting for him. You’ve waited for him for so long.  
“You think? I need to know—”  
“Yes. Maker, _yes_.”

He slams you against the wall the way you always wanted him too, and leans his helmet against your forehead. You gasp at the sudden display of force.

“Do you trust me, _dralshy’a_?” he asks. Your breath catches in your throat at his commanding voice.

“Yes,” you tell him. You do, and you want to prove it so much. You also want to ask him a million questions. Where’s the quarry, why is he so worked up, is he angry with you, where is this sudden desire coming from? But you don’t.

Din turns the ship lights off with his vambrace, places both hands on your hips and spins you around to walk you to your open bunk. He yanks your trousers down aggressively, slips your tank top and breast band off, and bends you over. You let him, curious to see exactly where this is going, and loving being manhandled.

“Don’t look,” he says. You hear his helmet come off with a hiss, and a dull thud as it hits the floor. You shiver in the cold air. He kneels down behind you and you feel his bare fingers against your already dripping wet cunt.

He is _achingly_ slow. This position gives him a better view, and provides new ways to play with you. He tickles you inadvertently, making you jerk forward, and he brings a large, warm hand down onto your bare ass with a sharp slap. 

“Stay still,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” you say in a voice that is unrecognizable to you. A groan he tells you he likes it. He moves up and down your thighs, kissing and sucking. He pinches your skin and you wiggle at the slight pain, which gets you a second sharp slap.  
“What did I say?” he warns.  
“I’m _so_ sorry, sir,” you say, letting a giggle slip out.   
“Fuck, you like that, don’t you? You like me spanking you?” he asks. There is a hint of a tremor in his voice.

What the hell has gotten into him? 

“Please—I need you to fuck me. Please,” you beg. He chuckles, and it’s menacing and you love it. 

“Good girl,” he says. He rubs his hands soothingly over your stinging ass. 

_Maker_. 

“I like you naked like this,” he says idly, gently running a finger across your bottom. He’s still in his armor. You like it, too. You hear the rustle of fabric as he takes his cock out. He trails kisses up your back till he gets to your neck and sucks lightly on your earlobe.

Before he enters you, he lingers and says, “Let me know if it’s too much, _dralshy’a_. I don’t want to go too far.” 

You haven’t finished smiling to yourself about the sweetness of the statement when he thrusts his cock into you. He’s hard, _so_ hard, somehow harder than the first time. He puts his hand in your hair and tugs experimentally, taking the small whimper you let out as a good sign. _Then_ he pulls your hair hard enough to make you see stars a little.

You take every inch of him, arching back toward him. He wraps a hand around your throat, which elicits a sharp moan from you. 

“Yeah?” he says.  
“Yes, I—”

But he squeezes your throat and you don’t know what the fuck do with yourself except let him fuck you—

“Harder,” you demand, through your teeth, “Fuck me harder.”

He obeys, going faster, faster, _harder_ , no one’s ever fucked you so hard in your life, and then he just _stops_. You whine like a child who’s lost her candy. 

Din recalls what you told him the first time, that you need something more direct to get off. He’ll fuck you into the mattress when he’s done making you come, and not a moment before. 

The lights are low in the ship, but not pitch black. Din likes you seeing you without the fuzzy interference of the viewer in his helmet. He doesn’t want to push you back into the bunk where he can’t have that view. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks again, lips now pressing kisses into the back of your neck.  
“Yes,” you say, “yes, I trust you, you can do anything, _anything_.”

Your admission sets something inside him on fire. Three weeks ago you held a weapon to his neck. Now your naked body is in front of him, vulnerable, and he really could do anything. Where would you go? What would you do? Most people would be afraid. You are not. 

“Close your eyes,” he says. A strip of fabric presses against your eyelids, and _oh_. Okay. You know where this is going. Din ties the blindfold around your eyes, careful not to tangle any of your hair in the knot, and gently changes your position from bent over to laying on your back on the edge of the bunk. The care he takes is a stark contrast to his prior aggression, but you appreciate it. 

Din lets himself look at you for a minute, sprawled out, dripping, waiting for him. He studies the curve of your face, the way your mouth is half open, waiting for him. For him. You are _achingly_ beautiful. _Mesh’la_. 

He kneels in front of you and roughly tosses your legs over his shoulders. He can’t give you the words you crave, but he can give you this. He bites the soft skin of your inner thighs, lightly at first, but when you respond favorably, he bites harder. He kisses every mark he leaves behind. 

It’s you who falls apart this time. The beskar pauldrons bite into your calves slung over his shoulders. Every nip, every lick, every kiss takes down a wall you didn’t know you had up. You melt into every touch until you are sure you will burn through this bed and turn to lava on his lips. 

Your body quivers as he makes his way up, up, up. Long, lazy licks around a hard nipple, stimulating the other with his thumb. You cry out because it’s torture, it’s so _good_ , you want it to go on forever but you’ll die if you don’t get some relief. 

“Din, I need—” you whimper, pathetically, not recognizing yourself.

“I know,” he says softly. He kisses your inner wrists and drags his teeth across your soft skin. Then he bites down _hard_ and you gasp. He chuckles and covers your mouth with his own. He’s improved since the first time you two did this. There _had_ been a lot of practice.

And then he’s down between your legs again. You’re warm and wet and needy. He inhales your scent again, letting out a throaty groan. His tongue meets your clit and flattens—he remembers your instructions—and he laps at you like you’re a puddle of water in the desert. 

Din takes his cock in his hand. It’s still slick with your arousal, and he strokes himself, moaning your name into your cunt. Your thighs tighten around his head. You whimper his name over and over again. Din would be happy to live like this. Maybe he could give up bounty hunting and spend his life between your thighs, sucking soft skin and licking your clit, making you scream. 

Din hears your breathing pick up, moans and whimpers ringing through the hull.

“I’m close,” you say in a rush, “I’m close, I’m close, I’m—”

His tongue goes faster and faster, and you feel yourself let go, all over his mouth, onto his face—oh, _wow_ , you think, wowowow. It’s all you can do not to squeeze his head off his shoulders. Din pulls your legs apart and you feel his cock fill you up again. You wrap your legs around his waist because if you don’t you’ll fly off into space.

“How does this feel? Is it good?” he asks, and his voice is so _sexy_. You nod frantically; all your nerve endings are on fire; you need to feel him.

“Please, Din, please—make it hurt, make it hurt,” you plead, and he groans and slams into you and it’s so good, it’s _so_ good. You reach your hands up to his head and _pull_ , scratch his neck, leaving little marks over whatever skin you can get to.

“Fuck. _Fuck_. I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m sorry I haven’t—I wanted to—I was, I needed to know if it was real, I fucking missed you, I missed your cunt, I missed your lips, you’re so fucking pretty,” he babbles as he rams into you over and over. Between the stimulation and his confessions, you’re close to crying. You didn’t realize how much your body missed his. You can feel him seizing up.

“Can I—can I come on you?” he asks, trying to slow his bucking hips.

“Maker, yes, _please_ ,” you beg. He pulls out suddenly, and he grunts as he gives himself a few quick strokes and finishes on your belly. You’re still catching your breath when you feel him lean down to lick you clean. Then he kisses your forehead.

He moves away from you for a moment and comes back with a warm cloth and gingerly cleans you up. His affinity for taking care of you without your asking leaves you speechless. You hear pieces of armor dropping to the floor. 

“Keep your eyes closed for a minute,” he whispers, undoing the blindfold. He gently pushes you backward onto the mattress and shuts the panel so you’re plunged into darkness. He plants kisses all over your face and neck and you run your hands through his hair and over his face, desperate to know something about it. 

“You have a little mustache,” you squeal.   
“Yeah,” he says, sleepily.   
“Why?”  
“Because.”  
“Hmm, and what’s this?” you ask, thumbing the patchy stubble around his jawline.  
“Hmm,” he says, ignoring you.

You’re quiet for a bit and then—

“What was that about?” you ask.   
“What?”  
“I’m not complaining,” you start, “but you didn’t show much interest in it after we were together the first time so I thought, I don’t know, you didn’t like it much—”  
“Are you serious? How could I not have liked it?”  
“Well, I don’t know, some people don’t! It's okay!”  
“I _loved_ it, okay? I just…”  
“Needed to know this was real?”  
“Yes.”  
“Where did you learn all that?”   
“Holos. Data pads,” he says.  
“But why now?” you prod.  
“You ask so many questions,” he says. He has his arms and legs pretzeled into your own, his face buried into your neck.  
“Din—”  
“Another hunter found the quarry before I did and killed her, and we got into it. I guess I was still worked up when I got back,” he says. You thread your fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. In the pitch black room you wonder what color his hair is. You’ve seen wisps of brown before, on accident, but is there silver in there, too?

“Okay,” you say. You have dozens of other questions, but his breathing becomes steady and even, and he sleeps peacefully in your arms.

“Stay with me,” you whisper to the darkness.

* * *

It doesn’t matter how many times you sit in this cockpit and watch the swirling stars go by. Hyperspace is something you’ve never gotten used to. The first time you ever saw it, you cried. 

You love sitting up here and watching it with the baby because you can see the blue starlight reflecting in his big eyes. The orbs are little galaxies, and you tell him he’s the most beautiful little thing you’ve ever seen. He gurgles bashfully like he understands.

“Where are we going this time? We’re running low on supplies,” you mention to Din. 

He spins around in the chair to look at you like he has something important to say. He fidgets a little with the armrest, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase. You’ve seen Peanut do this when he’s done something he’s not supposed to do.

“Din,” you say, narrowing your eyes.   
“Don’t be mad,” he starts, and you cross your arms, “We’re going to Naboo. I found...I found the person who put the bounty on you.”  
“ _What_?” You are _beyond_ furious. “What exactly is your plan here?”  
“I’m going to end this,” he says. You can hardly keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head. What a knight in shining fucking armor this man always has to be.  
“ _You’re_ going to end this? You? I don’t have any say in this? This is a bad idea, Din, there’s a reason I’ve been running from these people—”

It spills out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“You know who it is?” he asks, and he tenses up, gripping the armrests with both hands.  
“I—I wasn’t sure at first. When you said Naboo just now, it confirmed it,” you admit. You hold Peanut in your lap and rub the tips of his ears.   
“Who?” he asks shortly.

You sigh, hating that you have to have this conversation. 

“You know why I left Naboo. I killed those fucking people, and I left. I didn’t realize until I left that the sister of one of them is, uh, a pretty big crime boss,” you say, averting your eyes. You can’t do it right now, even if there’s a helmet blocking his eyes. You feel his eyes burning through you.

“How big?” he asks, teeth obviously gritted behind the helmet.  
“Like, top three on Naboo?”   
“Are you fucking—”   
“I didn’t do it on _purpose_ , I watched her brother kill my dad!” you yell, and the cockpit is silent.   
“You couldn’t have told me when I picked you up?” he asks.

You blanch a little under his questioning, but snap your face back to its previously defiant expression. 

“Don’t do that,” he says.  
“Do what?”  
“That thing. That thing where you hide yourself. You can be you around me,” he says.  
“You hide your whole fucking face from me all day. I don’t even know what you look like! You don’t get to tell me how to hold my face when I can’t even see yours,” you snap. Din relaxes a little and hangs his head, looking at his feet. 

“I just meant—you don’t have to pretend you’re not feeling something when you are,” he says.   
“Oh.”  
“Look… I know, this is probably a bad idea. I know that, but I want you safe. And you’re— _we’re—_ not going to be safe as long as this person is looking for you,” he says.   
“Okay, fine. Fine. But it _will_ involve me, okay? You don’t just get to go off and do whatever you want and leave me with the baby. This is my mission,” you say. He looks at you for a moment and relents.  
“Fair enough.” 

You get up and set the baby on the seat, walk over to Din, and plop yourself into his lap. You've never done that before, but you need to feel his solidness under you.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” you tell him, throwing your arms around his neck.   
“Mmm,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. You want this to be okay. You know he has the best of intentions. You know he is strong and capable and a good fighter. The best bounty hunter in the parsec. But this doesn’t sit right. You want to tell him no, tell him to turn back, tell him this ends badly.

But you know him. And you know this man will run headfirst into a sarlacc pit to protect the people he cares about, the people he—

“Do you love me?” you ask, immediately wishing you could pull the question back into your mouth, but he gives you no time to retract it.

“Yes,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway lollll~
> 
> Mando'a - 
> 
> Dralshy'a - stronger, brighter  
> Mesh'la - beautiful
> 
> I put up another Pedro-related one-shot last night, just for funsies, and I may write more if there's enough interest. In addition to our sweet baby boy Din, I love Javier Peña, Pedro Tovar, Frankie Morales, and of course, Oberyn mfin Martell.


	6. the mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din wants to take out the person who put a bounty on your head, but you've insisted this is your mission. Din tries to take a back seat, but when something horrible and unexpected happens, his reaction changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr.](https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com)
> 
> this chapter was a pain in my ass to write and I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but it's 3 degrees in half of the USA, including here in the Deep South, and so I thought maybe some people would like a morsel of fic to read. there's just a hint, a sprinkle, of smut in this one and a lot of exposition, so pls bear with me. and watch me make up stuff about Naboo because sometimes Star Wars lore is TOO MUCH.
> 
> also please prepare to be extremely irritated with both of them because i know i am, I'm so sorry.

It takes three weeks to travel to Naboo. You have to drop in and out of hyperspace twice for refueling. You thought at first you’d go crazy up there, stuck in a ship for so long, but it’d mostly been absolute bliss. 

You know that Din Djarin does not say things he does not mean. When he told you he loved you, so simply, so easily, it broke down barriers you didn’t even know you had. 

He’s more affectionate with you—and with the baby. He was always kind to him, of course, you’d known that from the first week on the ship. But his usual gruffness melted away. Din picks the baby up more, keeps him in his lap, talks to him more. He even calls him Peanut once or twice. 

Like he’d just needed one last push to accept that he really is a father.

It’s incredibly sexy. 

The bunk is no longer just _yours_. Din sleeps with you, always, and he curls himself into your body as much as you let him. All shyness about sex, about touching you? Evaporated, gone when you’d snuggled your head into his armored chest after he confirmed that, yes, he loves you. 

“I want to do everything,” he breathes into your ear one day, rhythmically moving in and out of you, “I want to do everything with you, to you,”--a moan interrupts his babbling—“I-I want to make you come while I’m in you, I’m going to, I’m—"

You grab his chin and kiss his mouth, hard. 

“You talk too much,” you tease.  
“You make me crazy, you don’t kn-know what you do to me,” he says, hips stuttering, halting as he comes, and you kiss him while he whimpers into your mouth.  
“I think I have some idea,” you whisper. 

You’ve never been so horny in your entire adult life. You feel like a teenager, all hormones and butterflies. You want him all the time, and even better—he wants _you_. It’s never enough. He talks to you afterward, telling you about his past, what life was like in the covert. You give him bits and pieces of your life. You’re still afraid that you’ll scare him off if you indulge your tendency to over share. 

You should know better.

Din wants to know everything. He wants to listen to you talk; he wants to get better at asking questions so you’ll tell him your stories, give him your opinions, tell him exactly who you are. You’ve stopped hiding your face, stopped trying to appease him; you let yourself just _be_ around him. 

You haven’t _told_ him you love him yet. Not out loud.

It doesn’t bother him, exactly, because he knows you do. But he knows something is blocking you. You talk all the time, and this is the one thing you haven’t said? There’s one last wall he hasn’t broken through yet. But it’s okay because he’ll wait. He’ll wait forever for you to be ready. 

“Where did you learn how to shoot your bow?” he asks one day while you’re making a sad little dinner. He’s got the baby strapped to his unarmored chest, bouncing him around the ship. He’s taken to walking around in tunics and trousers instead of his full suit of armor. It’s odd with just the helmet, but the whole thing is so damn domestic your heart melts, helmet or not. 

You wonder if he takes the helmet off in front of the baby. 

“My father taught me when I was, I don’t know, thirteen? I used to get really interested in stuff, you know, I’d fixate on certain things. It used to drive my parents crazy because it was mostly things like old books or the fauna and flora around our house. Mama used to say she wished I’d find something useful to obsess over, and then Papa brought home an energy bow one day. They got in this huge fight. She thought it was too dangerous.  
“Anyway…I practiced every day. Every single day. I’d come home from my classes and go straight to the little range he set up. This was when the Empire was really getting crazy, when Storm Troopers would kill people for even hearing a hint of rebel support. I wanted to be able to defend my home…”

You trail off.

“I guess it wasn’t really enough in the end.”

“I’ve upset you,” Din says, and he makes his way to you. He sets his big hands on your shoulders and presses his forehead to yours. The baby stirs on his chest and reaches for you. You take him out of the makeshift carrier and hold him to your chest.

“No,” you say, “you didn’t. Thank you for asking me. I—I like it when you ask me stuff. Feels like you want to know me,” you say. 

Din wants to know who made you think you weren’t worth knowing. 

“You say that kind of thing a lot,” he says. You look up into his black visor. His posture is soft and inviting. You sit on a crate and hold Peanut in your arms, rocking him back and forth. 

“You found me on Dathomir, remember?”  
“Of course.”  
“I’d been there for months in those woods.”

He gives you his full attention. It still makes you nervous when that helmet focuses on you.

“I was with a group for about a year. We did odd jobs around the parsec. I thought we were all friendly, you know? And there was one girl I got along with well enough to open up to. I kind of… fell in love with her,” you say sheepishly. You hadn’t planned on telling him about your ex. Din moves a little closer to you, his helmet tilted in attention.

“We were inseparable. She was amazing. I’d never been so, like, in love with another person. But I think I got too clingy, you know? I think I told her too much about me, or my past, or something. I mean, I wasn’t weird about it. She liked me, too, I thought. We were… together. But I read it all wrong, and she told me so. And everyone else in the crew started being cold to me, too. We were doing that job on Dathomir, and I had to go get supplies. When I came back to the ship, it was gone. At least they’d left my stuff out for me, I guess.”

You sigh at your pathetic little confession.

“When you went to that cantina on Tattooine and brought all your stuff in your bag,” he says, like he’s working something out, “That’s why you were giving me a chance to leave you behind.”  
“I… thought it would be easier that way. You stopped talking to me and I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” you say shrugging. Din stands and closes the distance between the two of you. He pulls you up to him and wraps you in that embrace that surprises you every time with its warmth and softness. 

“Never, okay? Never,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands, making you look at him.  
“Okay,” you whisper.

Your moment is interrupted with beeping and alerts from the cockpit. You’re almost to Naboo. 

* * *

Naboo has started to heal, finally, five years after Ember. After the remaining factions of the Empire came and destroyed everything, forced you out of your house, and put you in a place you did not know. Close by, but not yours. 

Din doesn’t notice a thing. 

“Mando,” you ask, “can you see any colors in that thing?”   
“Kind of. They’re fuzzy,” he says.   
“What happens if the viewer breaks?” you ask, shaking your head.  
“Then I can't see,” he says.  
“Has that happened?”   
“Yes.”  
“And you lived?”  
“I’m the best in the parsec,” he says. You hear a little smile in his voice.   
“Hm.”

You’re idling on the speeder, checking to see if the coordinates are correct. Din won’t let you drive, says it makes you stand out too much. You insisted on going to see the waterfalls again. Din was upset, obviously, saying it was too dangerous for you to even step foot outside of the ship. 

You’d argued for a good long while, and finally reminded him that this was _your_ mission, and if he wanted to come, he could. If he didn’t, you would go anyway. 

He, of course, would not let you go alone. 

“Okay, we’re good,” you say. Peanut is strapped to your chest and his big ears flap in the wind. 

Din has you seated in front of him, wrapped in an embrace, making sure everyone knows the woman in front of him is his. He can’t turn off the protective streak. It’s not in him. He knows you’re your own person, but he’s going to keep you safe. 

That’s the deal.

It’s extraordinarily aggravating. 

It takes hours to get to Lake Country. It’s not the stunning vista you remember, but the waterfalls remain, and the lake still glitters in the sunlight. The grass is only just growing back. 

Din hops off of the speeder and checks the perimeter. 

“Clear,” he says, and unloads his bag. A blanket. Bread, cheese, cups. Little metal plates. A box of some kind of sweet. You watch with interest. 

Has this man prepared a picnic? In front of the waterfalls? The waterfalls he didn’t want to go to? That he fought you so hard on?

Why, yes, he has. 

You set the baby down to play in the still-growing grass and approach Din. He’s busy serving the food, clunky in his armor. 

“What’s this?” you ask. Your voice is soft. 

Din steps back from his work and rubs the back of neck nervously. 

“I thought you might want something to eat. Do you like it?”

You move till you’re right in front of him, throw your arms around his neck, and plant your lips right on the cold metal of his helmet.

“I’m still… mad about being out here at all,” he says.   
“Shh,” you say, “We know, buckethead.”

He grunts, frustrated.

“I wanted to make up for being such a jerk about it,” he implores.   
“I love it,” you say. You can’t see it, but his cheeks warm at your delight. 

It’s nice, this little surprise he’s prepared, and you spend the afternoon laying with your head in his lap and occasionally chasing down the baby. 

Din takes his gloves off and runs his hand across your cheeks, your lips, down your arms. You wonder if he’d be so affectionate in public.

“Am I a secret?” you ask.   
“No,” he says.   
“You would love me like this around other people?” you ask.

The word love takes him by surprise, hearing it come from your mouth. 

“If you’ll let me,” he says.  
“I love you,” you say for the first time out loud. The words feel good on your tongue. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a long time.   
“I love you, too, _dralshy’a_ ,” he says, his hands wandering your body. 

You close your eyes and inhale the scent of the lakes and the sound of the waterfalls pounding behind you; feel the warm evening sun on your shoulder. Din smells like leather and gun oil and some kind of spice that was in the bread. The baby lay asleep on your hip, breathing softly. You have never been more at peace than you are right now. It’s a funny thing, considering the reason you’re back on Naboo. 

You’d missed home. 

When the sun starts to disappear, Din insists it’s time to go back to the ship. You have to plan your approach. You already know how you want to do it, but Din wants to go over it a million times. 

He won’t tell you, but he’s terrified. He’d argued with you about the waterfalls for a reason. Din hates that you’ve insisted on being a part of this. He knows you can; he knows that you’re no weakling, but you’re his. You’re his and he doesn’t want to lose you. 

“Okay, Din, how do you want to do this?”

You stand with your hands on your hips, and he does the same. You look at him for a moment and laugh. You’d never once seen him do that, and you wonder if he’s picked it up from you. You read once that couples imitate each other. 

And you two _are_ a couple. Your dreamy smile and laugh distracts him.

“What?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Nothing, nothing, let’s plan,” you say. Din shakes his head and brings up a holo of the surrounding area. The Crest is in a spaceport on the edge of the city of Keren, where Din had tracked the woman who’d put the bounty on you. The port was huge, one of the largest you’d ever seen; perfect for blending in. 

“We should go in quietly,” he says. You bite back a sarcastic comment because _obviously_ , but he’s talking his plan out. It turns out that Din will talk—quite a lot, in fact—if you give him a subject he’s passionate about. 

You _love_ hearing his voice, so you keep your comments to yourself. 

“There’s an alleyway. Here, behind the warehouse, doesn’t look like many people go there. I— _we_ can go in this way,” he says.  
“A crime syndicate hiding in a warehouse? How original,” you say, rolling your eyes.   
“Don’t underestimate them, _mesh’la_ ,” he says. His voice is gentle, but you know he’s scolding you. You huff. He goes over the rest of the plans—after you’re both in, you’ll take the high ground, snipe anyone you can spot from up there, and cover him. He would go through on the ground and fight his way up to wherever this person was. 

You didn’t love the plan. You wanted to be in on the action, not stuck in the rafters, but he’d begged you. He’d simply begged you. 

“I have the armor, _dralshy’a_. Please. I can’t lose you,” he’d said, and you’d relented after he promised to let you decide what to do with them. 

“Dawn, day after tomorrow, then?” you ask. He shakes his head.  
“We should go a little before, when the streets are completely empty. We stick out.”  
“ _You_ stick out,” you say, thumping his armored chest. 

He tilts his helmet down to you.

“Yes,” he says. 

You smile up at him in that way that makes his heart flutter. 

“Do you want to go to bed?” he asks. 

A broad grin flits your face when he lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist, giggling while he walks you back to the bunk, helmet pressed to your forehead, muttering the things he wants to do to you.

* * *

_The night air is sultry—it doesn’t feel like the Naboo you know. Your heart races because something isn’t right._

_Screams echo in your ears, pulling you further from sleep. Who is that?_

_A shriek from outside makes you sit up in your little bed. You look around the dark room, watching light from outside dance in the mirror’s reflection—fire?_

_You leap out of bed, grab your bow, and scramble through the bedroom door. You are silent, stalking the unfamiliar living room. The front door is wide open. Someone grabs your arm and puts their hand over your mouth._

_“Shh,” your mother says, before you can draw your bow, “Stay quiet. Stay quiet.”  
_ _“Mama?” you ask, letting your eyes grow wide and fearful. “Where is Papa?”  
_ _“Outside. He’s...he’s trying to deal with them,” she says. Her voice quivers.  
_ _“Who?” you ask.  
_ _“They’re raiders,” she says.  
_ _“Mama, let me—”  
_ _“No, I forbid it,” she says. Her eyes blaze and you cower under her gaze for a moment. “We’ll stay in here, stay quiet, give them no problems, and they’ll leave.”_

_She’s talking to you, but you think she’s really trying to convince herself._

_The roar of the waterfalls behind your temporary home is deafening. You can’t hear anything, only muffled yells and things breaking._

_You hear what you think is your father shouting, and then the sound of blaster fire. There’s a stomping of feet, and your mother pushes you down, tells you not to move, and steps out from behind the couch._

_“It’s just you then?” a man says.  
_ _“Aye. Take what you want and leave,” your mother says in a steady voice.  
_ _“There’s nothing in here,” another voice says, looking around the tiny hut.  
_ _“She can join the man, then,” the first one says, laughing cruelly._

_It happens quickly; a round of blaster fire, and your mother drops to the floor, eyes wide and staring. You slap your hand across your mouth to keep the horrified shriek in, and the men retreat, leaving you with the shattered remains of your life._

* * *

Something snaps you out of your reverie. A whisper? You’re holding a metal ball. You shake your head. You’re just outside the ship with the baby feeding him lunch. It’s gotten too stuffy in there. Din has started his pre-mission ritual of cleaning his guns and shining his beskar. He’s all over the ship, asking you to go over the plan just once more. 

You needed some air. 

There is a prickle in the back of your mind. A tendril snaking its way toward you. You relax and let it in.

_Mama._

The little creature in front of you stares expectantly. 

_Mama okay?_

You drop the ball in surprise, but he zaps it out of the air. You narrow your eyes at the gurgling baby. 

Is that you?  
 _Yes. You hear?  
_ I hear.   
_Mama sad?  
_ I’m not sad.   
_Feel sad.  
_ You know I’m not your real mom.  
 _Mama._

He is incorrigible. 

Where are you from?  
 _Don’t know. Long time ago.  
_ What’s your name?   
_Peanut.  
_ That’s the name I gave you.  
 _My name.  
  
_

“What’s going on?” a deep, raspy voice asks.

You almost jump out of your skin.

“Din! Please! Make some noise!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “What are you doing?” 

“Staring contest,” you say. He tilts his helmet like he thinks you’re not telling him everything. 

“You should come inside. It’s going to get dark soon,” he says, crossing his arms. You can hear his sour mood in his voice.

“Go inside, Mando, you’re hovering,” you chide. 

“Bring him in,” he says, and stomps away. 

You stand up from the crate you’d been sitting on, stretching upward. Din calls your name, and you turn toward the ship. 

Just for a moment. 

When you turn back around, the baby is gone. At first, you think he’s just wandered off. He does that. You check the crates, the ship. The hull. The ‘fresher. The bunk. The escape pod. The cockpit.

You’re frantic when Din finds you tearing the ship apart. You can’t speak; you can’t look at him. You even try reaching out with your mind. 

The silence is overwhelming. 

You and Din go outside and search the crates again. It’s then that you find a holo puck with a blinking message sitting where the baby had been. You hit play.

“We have him. Come get him.”

And that’s it. You feel Din’s presence behind you. Your heart thuds in your ears. It can’t be true, right? This is a dream. This _has_ to be a dream. 

You know it’s not. You feel Din’s rage rolling off of him. He has never yelled at you, exactly, but you are positive it’s coming. 

His son is gone, and it’s because you agreed to let him come to this stupid planet to—what, exactly? Fight your battles for you?

What’s the end goal? Kill a crime boss? Take down an underground syndicate? Why? So _you_ can be safe?

What the fuck were you thinking, agreeing to this? You should have said no. You should have had Din drop you off at the first planet and you could have kept running and Peanut would be safe. You should have done that the second that first hunter found you. 

It would have hurt to leave them, but you could have done it. 

And now you feel Din bearing down on you. You’ve never felt afraid of him, but they call him the best in the parsec for no reason. The man is intimidating. You know he won’t physically hurt you, but you truly dread how badly he is going to rip into you. 

“You,” he snarls, “How could you _lose_ him?”  
“Din—I, I’m sorry, I looked away, just for a second, you called my name, I—” you plead, but the excuse dies in your throat. 

“You were—this whole thing was a mistake. Listening to you was a mistake. You should have just let me handle it. Your _pride_ —I should have just done it myself. And now I have to figure out how to fix this,” he rages, turns around, and stalks up the ladder. 

The venom in his words stings you so badly you think you might die. You want to call out to him, argue with him, tell him this was his idea, this wasn’t _fair_. But you can’t. 

The click of the lock to the cockpit door rings through the hull.

His rant is over in less than 30 seconds and then he’s gone and you’re left standing there alone, the word “mistake” playing over and over again in your head. 

_You_ were a mistake, he’d said. You wish he would have just hit you. Your greatest fear. And he’d confirmed it.

Din Djarin doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. 

You know where they’ve taken the baby. He’s bait and you know it. But you will gladly trade your life for his safety. _Your_ baby. 

Was he scared? Did he know you would come for him? Was he hurt?

You give yourself five minutes. You slide to the ground and allow the pain to seep into your chest. It curls into your stomach and spreads to the tips of your fingers and toes. You think of the first time Din kissed you in the dark, all those months ago. When he told you he loved you. You regret not saying it back sooner. 

You let yourself mourn the best thing that ever happened to you, so it doesn’t distract you on your way to fix this.

You want to go up and tell Din your plan, but he won’t open the door. You want to tell you love him and you’re sorry and that you’ll fix it, you’ll get his boy back. You want to say goodbye and tell him it’s a shame you never got to see his face because you just _know_ he has beautiful eyes. 

You want to tell him you guess he _can_ lose you, after all.

But you don’t want him to remember you as a blubbering little girl.

It's all so fucking dramatic.

The five minutes pass, and your heart is so heavy it’s hard to stand. He’ll never call you _dralshy’a_ again. But dwelling on your broken heart won’t save Peanut. So you grab your bow, vowing to take down as many of those motherfuckers as you can. 

You scrawl a brief note telling him where you’ve gone. 

You sneak out of the broken panel at the top of the ship above the escape pod. The one he never fixed. Tears flow down your face, but you ignore the impulse to slump against the nearest wall and collapse. The child is in danger. _Your_ child is in danger. Because he is as much yours as he is Din’s, isn’t he? 

You will not succumb to this now. When it’s all over—if you survive-you can wail over this loss until you lose your voice. You square your shoulders and search for strength. 

Something powerful stirs inside you. 

* * *

Din regrets it as soon as he sees the look on your face when he tells you this was a mistake. That _you_ were a mistake. How could he have said something like that? 

You’d looked so fucking hurt, for just a second, and then you reverted to your old habit of blanking your expression. Trying to placate him.

He’s never felt so ashamed of himself. 

But he’s so mad, he’s so afraid—how could this have happened? And he’s just as much at fault, if not more. It was _his_ idea to come here and find the woman who put a bounty on you. And he’d acted like you’d forced his hand. 

“I can’t be your mistake,” you’d said to him that first night. And then you’d trusted him with your past. Told him about everyone who had walked away from you for one reason or another. You opened your entire self to him, you _trusted_ him, and he threw it back at you. 

He’s so fucking disappointed in himself. 

That _look_ on your face. It was fear and pain and rage and sadness and... _shame_. And then it was gone. And you hadn’t fought, you hadn’t cried, you just stood there, rigid. Shocked. And he left you standing there. 

Din thinks he might stop breathing if doesn’t go to you. He needs to leave this cockpit and go apologize to you. Needs to tell you that you’ll go save the baby together. Need to apologize for lashing out because he couldn’t tell you he was afraid. Would he rather you stand there in the dark alone, wondering why he would throw your secrets back in your face?

Din stands up decidedly and heads down to you.

“I-” he starts as his feet hit the floor. But he stops when he sees the hull is empty.

“ _Dralshy’a_?” he asks the darkness. You don’t answer. He looks in your bunk and doesn’t find you. You’re not in the ‘fresher. You’re nowhere. He frantically whirls around, thinking you’ve folded yourself into a corner, like you did sometimes. 

Your bow is gone. 

And then he sees it. The note, and your mother’s necklace. His heart seizes up with fear. He picks up the folded paper with a shaking hand.

 _“Din-  
_ _I love you. I should have told you more. I’m sorry. Don’t think I’ll be back. Tell the baby I love him. He’ll be back soon.  
_ _Yours Always”_  
  
“No,” he breathes as the realization sets in.

You’ve gone to make a trade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway that HURT to write 
> 
> okay next chapter make take a bit longer than usual. I've got some other stuff I'm working on, and also i need to re-tool a few things. also my husband has me playing valheim with him and i also unfortunately have to work. but follow me on tumblr if you're so inclined!
> 
> NOTE: i got a DM from someone on who very patiently and kindly let me know that i’d left something in about the reader’s skin turning red on the tumblr version of chapter one--y’all, please let me know if you see anything like that; i try my best to be as physically inclusive as possible w/ my reader, but i do slip up and i am a white woman who is, unfortunately, human.


	7. the battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> determined to make this right, you head out to retrieve peanut from the clutches of the gang who killed your family. but din djarin is not a man who will let you do this without backup, no matter how mad you are at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr.](https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com)  
> i just want all of you to know how much i love that you're enjoying this so much. i know the reader is a little different, but it seems like she resonates with a lot of you, and i love that. also, I hated writing this chapter like fire, so GOD, i hope y'all enjoy it. this one's pretty violent, but it's not graphic.
> 
> no smut for this chapter, unfortunately, but we'll get back to our regularly scheduled sexy times soon.

Din has a habit of getting in his own way when it comes to you. He puts his foot in his mouth daily. And usually, you smile at him and move along because you know he’s bad at conversation. The words he yelled at you in anger and fear weren’t true. The thought that he hurt you with blatant lies is unsettling—it’s not him. 

He breathes deeply as he hastens through the deserted streets to find you. You’re sloppy this evening, or maybe he just knows you well, but he tracks your movements with ease. 

Din rounds the corner of a large building and spots you a few yards away, squatting behind a market stall, peering over to the warehouse in front of you. Your bow is on your back, one arm raised and hovering over your shoulder, ready to snatch it. It occurs to him he’s never seen you fight. You’ve mentioned it’s not something you enjoy. 

He ponders an approach. You will most certainly turn around and shoot him if you hear him coming, thinking it’s an enemy. There’s nothing else for it, and he hates himself because he’s going to scare you again, but it’s the only way to do it without getting himself maimed or killed. He approaches silently, a skill that’s taken years of practice, wraps his arms around you, and puts one hand over your mouth. 

“It’s me, _dralshy’a_ , it’s me,” he says before you thrash too much. 

“Din?” you whisper, muffled through his gloved hand. “What are you doing here? How did you—”

“Listen to me, my love, listen — I came down to the hull, and you were gone and you left this necklace and note that said I would never see you again. Did you think I was going to let you run off and die, to throw your life out for something stupid I said?” he asks, distressed, taking his hand off your mouth and lacing your fingers through his own. His relief at finding you unharmed prevents him from letting you go.

You shift in his arms, not looking back at him.

“I just wanted to fix it,” you say. You hadn’t expected him to come running after you, which you realize is a foolish thought. Of course he would.

“You don’t have to fix anything, nothing about this is your fault. I’m an idiot and I don’t deserve you and I will beg your forgiveness for the rest of my life, but we’re a team, dralshy’a, and right now we have to save our son,” he says. 

He says it with such nonchalant conviction, as though it had always been this way; as though you’d made a conscious decision to adopt Peanut together, years ago. You can’t approach it, not now, so you blink back happy tears and set your face in a determined line.

“Okay, Din. Okay,” you say, turning your head to the side to face him, and he presses his helmet to your forehead. 

“So what do we do, dralshy’a?” he says. He’s putting you in charge, you realize, to show that he trusts you. And now is as good a time as any to tell him your secret. 

“Peanut… I can hear him, Din,” you say, and Din looks around as though he expects the baby to appear. 

“Where?” he asks.

“No, I mean — look, I was going to tell you this, I promise, I needed to make sure. I can hear him in my head. He talks to me with his mind. And I can answer back,” you say, ready for the inevitable backlash, waiting for him to leave you here, tell you you’re crazy. For once you’re happy you can’t see his face.

But Din just nods.

“What’s he saying?”  
“I need to listen for him. That's what I was doing when you came up.”

Din is still holding you tight, so he lets you go. 

“So listen,” he says. “I’ll keep watch.” 

You swallow, confused at his automatic acceptance, but relieved he was there to protect you now. Eyes closed, you reach out with your mind again, trying to find that opening. The tap on the side of your brain. 

_Peanut.  
_ Silence.  
 _Peanut. It’s me. It’s Mama.  
_ Silence. 

And then—

**_Mama here?_ **

You think your heart might burst, but you need to stay calm.

 _Mama’s here.  
_ **_Papa?  
_ ** _Yes, Papa, too. We need to find you. Can you help us?  
_ **_Big building. Inside. Bad men._ **

Your heart breaks, but you push on. 

_Where inside?  
_ **_Up.  
_ ** _Up?  
_ **_High up. Three bad men outside. Front.  
_ ** _Are you hurt?  
_ **_Not hurt. Scared.  
_ ** _We’re coming._

The connection breaks.

“Shit,” you say. Din looks at you, head cocked, hands full of blasters and shoulders squared. Ready for a fight.

“He’s inside. Three ‘bad men’ out front. He’s not hurt. I think he’s upstairs,” you say. Din nods and puts his blasters up, pulling you close. You’re dizzy, but you shake the feeling. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. You nod.

“Let’s go,” you say. Din follows your lead. You’re nervous, but only because you’ve never led someone into a fight before. It’s usually just you, and with your previous groups you’d followed. You don’t know how to give orders. 

“You’re doing great, _dralshy’a_ ,” he says, one hand on your shoulder. The confidence calms you. And if anything goes wrong, he’ll be there. 

How silly you were, running off alone.

You scan the area, looking for the “bad men”. There’s one stationed at the door and one on each side of the building. It’d be easier to take them all out at once, but you need a better vantage point. You study the building beside you.

“I need to get up on the roof,” you say, looking around for a ladder. The building is about 14 feet high; not exactly a skyscraper, but you’re not getting up there without help. 

“Hands out,” Din says, and before you can answer, he’s grabbed you by the hips and tosses you straight into the air like you weighed nothing. 

" _Maker_ , Din, a warning,” you snap when you’ve scrambled onto the roof.

“You had it,” he says, and you swear you hear a smirk. “Get the two on the side. I’ll take care of this idiot.”

The guard at the front door isn’t paying attention, halfway dozing in his chair. You watch Din sneak toward him, blasters ready, and turn your attention to the men on either side of the warehouse. The first one is a clear shot, but since he’s the most exposed, he’ll draw attention the quickest. Several boxes and crates block the second man. He’d be harder to take out, but hidden easily. 

Chancing the worse shot, you draw your bow string and the laser hits the man’s head dead center, sending a shiver down your spine. There would be no mercy tonight — they’d kidnapped your baby — but you didn’t enjoy watching the man fall to the ground with wide, blank eyes. The second man is harder to get a lock on, which surprises you. He’s moving around, talking to someone on his comm link. Once he stands still, you pluck your bow again and down he goes, eyes just as blank as his fellow guard’s. 

You hear a whistle from below and look down. Din has the front door guard slung over his shoulder and moves to throw him behind the crates with the man you took down. He stares down at the man you killed for a moment, then shakes his head and walks toward your spot. He opens his arms up, signaling for you to jump.

You land in his arms and he lowers you to your feet carefully, looking at you all the while.

“You’re a damn good shot,” he says. He lets you lead, but you can tell he’s guarding you with his broad body. The door stands opened, unlocked. This should be much harder, right?

The warehouse is too quiet when the two of you enter. 

_**Mama**. _

The word comes from above you. You snap your head up, and on the top floor, in front of the guard rails, stands a woman, holding Peanut by the collar of his camel-colored robe. He swings his little body, struggling to get free. Your chest aches and you feel Din stiffen next to you.

“You came,” she says, a sinister smile on her face. Her hair is long and icy blonde and tumbles around her shoulders. She might have been beautiful once, but a life of spice running and raiding has sapped all of that from her face. 

“Give him to us,” Din says, hand moving to his blaster. 

“I tell you what, Mandalorian. You give me that girl and I’ll give you your little creature back. I’ll even pay you for your trouble. You’re a bounty hunter, are you not?” she asks, arching her brow. Din’s hand curls around your waist. 

“No. Give him back. You don’t get either of them,” he says in that menacing way of his. It’s the voice he uses when he’s “on duty”, as you’ve teased. 

“Come now, Mando. It’s a fair trade. One pet for another,” she laughs. 

“Put him the fuck down,” you say, clenching your fists, resenting her use of the word “pet”.   
“Or what, girl? You’ll kill me? Like you did my brother? I don’t think so. You got lucky that time.”

Din is getting antsy. He doesn’t want to listen to anything this woman has to say. His instinct is to shoot her in the head, but she’s holding his son. 

“Can you ask him if he can float?” Din asks out of the corner of his mouth. You startle and hope it’s not too obvious.  
“What?” you hiss.  
“Can you ask him if he can float? If I shoot her, he could float down, right?”  
“I don’t know if—”

  
“This is getting boring, dears. I suggest deciding, soon, because I am tired of holding this thing,” she snarls, shaking Peanut at you over the railing.  
“I’m not giving her up,” Din yells, and you jump at the ferocity of his tone.   
“Very well,” she says, “I’ll kill you all, then.”

It’s pandemonium. She turns around, Peanut still hanging from her fist. People approach from all around you and Din pulls you to the ground and covers you with his beskar-clad body, but you wiggle out. 

“We have to get to him. Cover me, Din, and I can get up there fast,” you say, praying he doesn’t argue. He doesn't; just grabs his other blaster from his holster and nods at you. 

You sit up and scan your surroundings. The staircase that leads to the upper floors is about thirty feet away. Din is already popping up and firing blaster shots at anyone coming your way. 

“We need to go that way,” you yell over the blaster fire. Din nods in understanding and blocks you from incoming fire as you run to the staircase, bow in hand, taking out a few snipers on the upper floors. 

Din is almost feral in the way he fights. He’s not only trying to keep himself alive; he’s fighting for his family. A man rushes up to Din; a stupid mistake on the man’s part, as Din kicks him in the chest, knocking him down and shooting him in the arm. He’d make sure they were all dead before you left this place, but first he needed to get you to the top floor.

“They’re flanking us,” you shout as two men bear down on you and Din, and Din crosses his arms, firing both blasters at once. Despite the circumstances, you’re in awe. He didn’t even have to look. 

Finally, you reach the stairs. He walks backward up while you focus on the task in front of you. Peanut is on the third floor. You can feel him, somehow, and know where you need to go. 

The climb feels like it takes ages, but it’s only been a few minutes since you ascended. You let the invisible string pull you ahead. The woman steps out of her hiding spot, looking angrier than ever. 

“It’s over,” Din says, and she knows it’s true. Something snaps in her face.

“You care a lot about this thing, don’t you, girl?” she snarls.

 _Shit_. 

“Give yourself up and I won’t throw him over this railing,” she threatens. 

“You don’t have to do this. You didn’t have to do any of this. Your brother killed my parents, and I paid him back in kind. It was fair,” you say.

“I don’t _care_ if he killed your rotten parents, or your pets, or _you_. You had no right, you people are below him, and me, and you have no right trying to fight,” she screeches. You don’t care about her petty insults. All you want is Peanut. 

There is a pause when she realizes you’re not budging, and then—

“Fine,” she says, and it happens slowly and then all at once. You watch her sling the baby over the guardrail, watch his little eyes widen in fright, grasping the air for something to hold onto, kicking his tiny legs out. 

“No!” Din shouts, rushing forward, but he’s too far away. He tackles the woman to the ground, watching the scene unfold in horror. 

**_Mama!_ **

Power. The kind you felt on your way here, the kind you feel when you’re striking down every enemy in sight, the kind you feel when you’re nestled into Din and Peanut; it stirs inside of you again. You reach out and open your arms, eyes closed, focused. 

Din watches in amazement, his elbow around the woman’s neck. The baby’s eyes are no longer afraid, but surprised. His little body turns upright in midair, and his expression tells Din that the baby is not doing any of it. He goes sailing into you with enough force to knock you down, but you wrap him in your arms as you fall backward into a stack of boxes. 

Din leaves the unconscious woman on the ground and scrambles to you. Your breathing is shallow and the baby coos in fear, like he’s trying to get you to talk. 

“I got him,” you say, “I got him, Din, I fixed it.” 

It’s hard to talk, and you’re so, so tired. You can’t explain any of what just happened, but you got him and he’s alive and so are you. Din leans down and presses his helmet onto your forehead. You sigh.

“I need to sleep,” you say, and Din only nods. And then the everything goes black.

* * *

Your eyelids flutter open. The low hum of the hull fills your ears, and a small presence cuddles under your arm. You look down and see the tips of big green ears and hear soft snores.

“ _Dralshy’a_?”

Din’s soft voice floats through the hull. You look around, blinking. Against your throat rests your mother’s necklace, and the blankets are tucked around you. 

“Din?” you ask, bleary-eyed, trying to find him.   
“I’m here,” he says. His helmeted head appears in front of you and you sigh. Safe.   
“What happened?” you ask.  
“What do you remember?” Din questions, holding your hand in his own, ungloved, smooth fingers tracing circles over your palm.

“I remember Peanut flying to me? And then I got really sleepy. How long have I been asleep?”  
“Three days.”  
“Three days?!”   
“Yes. He’s refused to leave you for more than a few minutes,” Din smiles, gesturing to the sleeping gremlin next to you. “I don’t… I don’t think he flew to you. I think you pulled him to you.”  
“That doesn't make any sense. I don’t have powers,” you frown, shaking your head.  
“Don’t you?” Din asks gently. “You can talk to the kid without speaking. You never miss a shot. And you…”

“What?” you ask, trying to work this out.   
“Your energy bow, it’s not modded, right? It doesn’t have aim correction?” he asks.  
“No,” you say, shaking your head.  
“But the lasers correct themselves. Seen them. When they move the way you don’t want them to, they correct themselves. Because you tell them to,” he says, holding your hands, playing with your fingers, soothing you.   
“Oh. I’m — I mean, I’m not a Jedi or anything,” you ramble because you don’t know what else to say.  
“Don’t have to talk about it right now, sweet girl. Are you hungry?” he asks.  
“Maker, I’m _starving_.”   
“Let me get you something to eat.”

A soft cooing comes from under your arm. 

“Someone else is awake,” Din says, moving to get you some food. Peanut crawls onto your chest and sits there, looking at you with his gigantic eyes.

 **_Mama.  
_ ** _Baby.  
_ **_Mama okay?  
_ ** _Mama’s okay.  
_ **_Was scared.  
_ ** _I know. I’m okay. You’re okay, too.  
_ **_Okay._ **

Din looks at the two of you and stops what he’s doing. You’re both in deep concentration. You’re talking to him, he realizes. It should make him jealous, he thinks, but it doesn’t. Din remembers that he called him “our” son. He doesn’t regret it because it’s true, but he wants you to be okay with it. 

“What do you think of taking some time off?,” he asks when he brings your double rations to you. You grab for them eagerly, placing the baby next to you and gobbling them up. 

“Like, all of us?” you ask between bites.

“Yes,” he says. “You’re never going anywhere without me ever again, _dralshy’a_.” 

Heat creeps into the back of your neck at the domineering tone. 

“Okay, Din Djarin. So a vacation, then?”  
“Something like that.”   
“Where are we going?”  
“Sorgan. I know a place where we can rest. Where I can take care of you,” he says. His voice is so soft when he says the last part it makes your heart flutter. 

And then you remember—

“Where is she?” you ask, trying to keep your voice even. 

“Carbonite. Wanted to wait for you to decide what to do with her,” he explains. You find now, after everything, you have little thirst for revenge.   
“She’s wanted, right?” you ask.   
“By about a million people,” he says.   
“Any bounties?”  
“A few.”  
“Let’s just turn her into the highest bidder,” you sigh. Din chuckles.   
“Are you sure?” he asks.   
“Peanut is safe. She’s not a threat to either of us. We took down the gang. And maybe with the money you can fix the access panel,” you say, sticking your tongue out. 

“Missed you,” he says. “And you snore.”   
“I do not,” you say, offended, stifling a yawn.  
“Rest, love,” Din says. You like being called love.   
“Will you stay with me?” you ask, afraid of the nightmares that will surely come. 

“Always,” he says. Peanut has already fallen back asleep. Din closes the panel to the bunk and turns out the lights. You hear the soft hiss of his helmet and shut your eyes as he moulds himself into your body, lips on the back of your neck. You don’t think you’ll ever tire of how sweet and needy his touch is. 

“I love you,” you say.  
“I love you, too. Sleep,” he says. 

And the world falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHOCK AND SURPRISE READER IS FORCE SENSITIVE 
> 
> bc I would also like to have magic space wizard powers, please and thank you.


End file.
